


my guardian angel

by spaloon



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Alice Angel Is A Ray Of Sunshine, F/F, Malice...is not, POV Second Person, Slow Burn, lots of death but its only a slap on the wrist, malice has trouble adjusting to this new arrangement, marriage proposals, semi-au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2019-06-24 09:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 30,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15627288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaloon/pseuds/spaloon
Summary: Something new has crawled out of the Ink Machine.It’s nothing you’ve ever seen before, it’s... a perfect little Alice Angel. And you do mean perfect, down to the last detail. Not a single flaw or blemish on her pale form.[Short-fics of an AU where Alice as we know her meets the Alice we never quite got to.]





	1. like the devil himself

**Author's Note:**

> This was written by my roomate and editted by me, but she's a little too shy to post on her own, haha. 
> 
> Note that while these are all relatively connected, some of them might contradict each other because they were all written seperately and were intended to just be spur of the moment short fics!!
> 
> and if you like the stories, please comment or kudos! it helps give her confidence to write more (:

“...He should know better than to lie to an angel.”   
  
You hit stop on the tape recorder and grab your coat. Joey wants to talk to you about an opportunity? Fine, you’ll talk. Oh, you’ll talk and talk; you’ll give that sunovabitch a piece of your mind. Thinks he can replace you with some floozy off the street, does he? You’ll show him where he can stick his ‘ _opportunity_.’ You didn’t want to believe the others when they said he was becoming a few screws loose, but if he thinks he can weasel out of being chewed out, he really _should_ be institutionalized.   
  
You cross into the threshold of the elevator, and take one last look back at Heavenly Toys.  
  
“Don’t worry Alice. When I come back, I’ll be an Angel again.”  
  
The shutters close behind you and the elevator begins to rise. Flashes of other floors mark your ascent, each bizarre department of this sprawling studio manned mostly by skeleton crews these days. You don’t know where the rest of the staff has gone; though you can’t really blame them for not giving any notice. If it weren’t for Alice, you would’ve blown this popsicle stand yourself. But, she needs someone to stand up for her, not let her be embodied by some  _Janey Hollywood_ who won’t even do her justice.   
  
You fidget with the doll of her you keep in your purse to calm your nerves. Why are you nervous? What’s Joey gonna do to you that’s worse than what’s already been done? Yet each empty floor only feeds an anxiety you can’t quite place. _Something just ain’t right about an empty cartoon studio,_ you think to yourself.  
  
Finally, the elevator slows to a stop, and with a ding you exit onto the top floor, the only floor above ground. The fresh air- not stale and stilted like under the hood- does a lot to soothe your nerves further.   
  
“Alright Joey, show me what you got.”  
  
You head for the place named in his note. _Just follow the pipes, they all lead to it._ You only ever trip a few times in your heels, as if a new line had been added every other day. Never the same.  
  
And there the bastard is, leaning over the railing, facing his god awful machine. Maybe that’s where all the employees went. Laid off so he could fund that damn  _thing_.   
  
Before you can say anything, he began to speak. “Ah, Susie… There you are. I’m glad you came to see me; half the staff these days act like they’re afraid of me, like I’m some kind of _demon_.”   
  
He turns to face you, and he looks... bad. His eyes are heavy and dark, his hair ratty and greasy. His skin looks like it’s barely hanging on, and it’s covered in blotches and stains of ink.   
  
“Yeah, well, I can’t imagine why," You say. "Word at the water cooler is you’ve been raising hell over every drop of ink around here.”  
  
He laughs. A tired, forced laugh. “Well, you shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”   
  
You cross your arms, not really in the mood for small talk right now. It was time to discuss why you came. “Well? I’m waiting.”   
  
He seems to go blank for a second, like he forgot who you are and why you’re here, but then he seems to regain his posture. Nothing like the charismatic Joey Drew you once knew. You’d almost feel bad for him, if he didn’t stab you in the back.   
  
“Ah yes. Now I remember. I understand you’ve been... quite...  _miffed_  about the recent recast.” Oh, you could just deck him right now.   
  
“Miffed? I’ve been downright  _pissed_  about it!" You stomp your heel in frustration. "You said I was your angel, and then you’re gonna just turn around and kick me to the curb when some doll shows a little _skirt?!”_  
  
He raises his hands, asking you to calm down. “It’s nothing like that! The stockholders made the demand, you know how these things go..." No, you don't know how these things go, but he doesn't elaborate. Instead, he shakes his head and changes the subject.

"Regardless, I think I have just the thing for you. I’d hate to see you walk out those doors, so...” He walks over to a stack of boxes, and rustles around in them. After a moment, he finally pulls out...   
  
“What in God’s name is  _that?”_  
  
He’s holding in his hands a giant, misshapen Alice head. “It’s your new costume! You see, I was thinking: what if we had a couple of mascots running around the amusement park downstairs? Now, I know what _you’re_ thinking: kids  _hate_  Alice, but-“   
  
You interrupt him before he can say another word. “No, that was absolutely not what I was thinking! Are you serious? You expect me to put on that ridiculous thing and parade around for the kids?" You gesture with disgust at the ugly lump of foam. "Her head doesn’t even look right! It looks like a goddamn Mr. Potato Head!”   
  
He lowers the head, a sour look on his face.   
  
“Alright, I’ve had enough of this," You continue, not bothering to let him finish, and begin to turn away towards the door. "I ain’t gonna be your little clown, and I _sure_ as hell ain’t gonna stay and watch you replace me. Disney would love to hire the voice of Alice Angel, and I’m sure when this dump gets shut down, they can just redo her.”  
  
You barely finish your sentence when suddenly Joey is in your face, grabbing you by your shoulders. You didn’t even see him drop the head, or move a muscle- he’s just suddenly  _there._  
  
“You just think you can leave, you bitch?" He spits. "You all just think you can walk out on Old Joey? I come up here...”   
  
You start struggling against him as he pushes you, and you feel your back bump hard against the railing. You can hear the grinding of the machine below you, bubbling with thick, black ink. “Joey, l-let go of me!”   
  
“I _try_ to give you what you want!" He yells, ignoring your pleas, "You say you wanna be Alice Angel, I try to make you Alice Angel! But  _noooo_ , that ain’t good enough for Susie, is it? Just like nothin' was good enough for Henry. But you ain’t walking out of here like him!”   
  
You feel yourself going over the bar, little by little. “J-Joey, you’re insane, you’re fucking crazy! Stop!” He grins at you, and you swear he looks like the devil himself.   
  
“You wanna be Alice Angel so bad? I’ll have the boys draw her with the batch of ink I make from  _you!”_  
  
With that, the railing breaks, and you’re helpless but to fall. Time slows down, little more than a crawl, as you look up at the man who’s killed you, that same devilish grin on his face. There’s nothing human left in his eyes. As you fall, your Alice Doll comes out of your purse, just out of reach.  
  
Then, everything goes black.


	2. make you beautiful

_You’re swimming in that Black Sea, adrift. A thousand screaming voices, all echoing off of each other, a chorus of torment unending; you have no ears to cover, barely even a mind to lament your fate. No body to curl up into a ball and rock yourself back and forth. It won’t stop, it never stops, why won’t it stop please god make it stop stop stop_ stop _-_  
  
And then, like an answer to your prayers, the voices are snuffed out. Not one by one, but all at once. You feel....   
  
_you feel?_  You feel a hand on your- on your  _cheek?_ You have a cheek to feel the hand? Yes, it’s there, and it’s real, and you put your hand against this hand and you can feel the cloth and it’s quiet and  _real_. And then your eyes open, and you see her. With a quivering voice, from a gap in the tar of your newfound body, you can only utter her name.

“A-Alice?”

She smiles at you, a truly angelic smile. Perhaps the nicest smile you can ever remember seeing. So perfect on her perfect cartoon face. 

But she _isn’t_ a cartoon, is she? You can feel her hand on your cheek.   
  
“Oh, my dear, I have searched so long for you.” Her voice....  _your_  voice, is like heaven compared to the cacophony of pain from which you came. “I found you, Alice.”  
  
Alice? “I’m... Alice?”  
  
”Of course you are, my darling. Who else could you be? Do you not hear your voice?”

Yes... that makes sense. The same voice... you’re Alice. Who else  _would_  you be?   
  
“Oh, but don’t you look poor. ...If you’ll excuse my language, you look like _Hell.”_ She giggles, and you find yourself laughing too. There’s something about her- something about you? “Well, we can fix that, darling. Up on your feet, an Angel shouldn’t be laying in the muck!”   
  
You try your best to stand, slowly but surely. It’s been so long since you had legs. “What... What happened?”   
  
Her smile melts your heart... do you still have a heart? “You’ve been gone a long time. This world has gone so long without it’s angel. I’m afraid they’ve forgotten about us... but now you’re back, and we can get to work!”  
  
“Work?”   
  
She takes you by the hand and practically skips with you awkwardly in tow. “Well, of course; we can’t have you looking like a demon if you’re going to be angel!”   
  
“No... I, I suppose we can’t.”   
  
She nods her head. “Right, so, let’s fix you up real quick!” She pushes through a door, and what you see before you freezes that warm fuzzy feeling dead. It’s horrifying. Strange tools and gizmos line the scene of... is that  _Boris the Wolf_  strapped to the table?  
  
“W-what’s going on?”   
  
Other Alice giggles again. “Well silly, can’t you tell? How fully formed, fully realized? How do you think you’ll fix yourself?”  
  
She keeps saying to fix yourself, that something is wrong with you that can be repaired. But you’re Alice, right? Aren’t you perfect, like her?   
  
But you catch your reflection off the cold metal and- no. No, you’re not. The inky silhouette that meets your eyes is the furthest thing from _perfect_ it could be.   
  
The other Alice guides your hand to a simple axe. “It’s easy, just one good swing and he opens right up!”   
  
You shakily take hold of the axe, and look at Boris, who is panicking and thrashing. “Will it hurt him?”  
  
She smiles that same, beautiful, perfect smile. “Of course not. They’re just cartoons! They aren’t real like us, they’re just tools.”  
  
_Just a tool._ They aren’t real, real like Alice. Like you, like the two of you, Alice. You lift the axe above your head.  
  
Your eyes meet Boris’s, and you feel like that can’t be right.   
  
“ _Oh, for the love of-!”_ The other Alice’s voice suddenly sounds shrill, losing all the pleasantness it had before as she reaches up to your arm and forces it down, burying the axe blade into Boris’s chest. He stops moving, not a single sound uttered, as ink spills from the wound. “See, that wasn’t so hard. Now reach inside, and take what’s ours.”   
  
You do as you’re told and dig your hand inside, ripping out what you can grab hold of in the slippery blackness. You stare at what you find, clutching some kind of organ, stained with splotches of black. Almost still beating in your clenched hand. You fall to your knees, still holding the viscera, feeling sick at what you’ve done. If you had actual eyes you’re sure you’d be crying.  
  
The other Alice wipes your not-there tears away, and once again cups your cheek, taking the mangled guts from your hand. “Now, was that so bad? You’ll see, it gets easier. Before long, we’ll be _beautiful.”_ She presses the guts into your formless body, and for the first time in a long time, you feel the cold air hanging in this horrible, horrible machine.


	3. life's little miracles

You have always hated being resigned to the rafters. Your movement is clumsy, and slow, but it’s the only way to be safe from the monsters below. You normally wouldn’t have much to fear aside from the Dancing Demon himself, but now with the Butcher Gang running amok... you instinctively grab your arm, only recently repaired from the last time one of those things touched you. The color hasn’t come back yet, but all things in due time.

Speaking of the little devils, you lay an eye on a gathering of them. They shouldn’t be able to see you, much less reach you, so you can observe their behavior to your heart’s content. Interesting creatures, they are. Cut of a different pen, you could say. Their ink so different, so...  _dangerous._ Where they came from, and why now, you have no idea, but...

Hold on, what is that? They appear to be piled onto something... something a bit more solid than any of the monsters that roam these halls. Could it be another Boris, fresh from the pipe? It  _is_  about time for the usual restock, and it’ll be such a long wait for another one if you let them drag him off.

You suppose it can’t be helped, as you grip your axe, preparing for a fight should things go sour. You drop off the rafter high above the scene, landing on the hard wood with a sickening splat that reduces you into nothing more than a puddle. A second later, though, and you reform, no worse for wear. And with a great amount of luck, your explosive entrance scared off the gang. For the moment, at least.

You move over to the body on the floor, hoping they hadn’t killed it yet. No, you need it alive, or at least breathing... _hold on._

As you approach the body, you see it is _certainly_  not a Boris. It’s nothing you’ve ever seen before, it’s... a perfect Alice Angel. And you do mean  _perfect,_  down to the last detail. Not a single flaw or blemish on her pale little form. Hands almost shaking, you examine her body closely, just to make sure this isn’t some trick or trap. ...Maybe you should pay Sammy’s church a visit after all, for someone has clearly answered your prayers.

And better yet, you can see her (admittedly ample) chest moving with the breath of life. Unconscious, and served up to you on a silver platter! Ironically, you’re not a very religious woman, but you’d say this is a bonafide miracle. You scoop her limp body up in your arms and rush back to your stage, in part to avoid a run in with the Butchers, but also because they’re just so  _easy_  to work with when they have the decency to be knocked out cold for you.

Once you’re safe inside your little Cloud Nine you waste no time strapping your golden ticket to perfection onto the operating table. Considering the amount you’ve been able to accomplish with a couple of rubbish-bin Boris’s, the thought of what this angel's perfect heart could do for you is making you nigh unto giddy with excitement.

She’s starting to stir, but at this point it’s no concern.  _Infact_ , you think as you pick up a knife, you’re  _glad_  she’s waking up. The screaming is such sweet music to your ears.

“H-huh? Where... am I...?”

The knife clatters to the floor. Shock fills every nook and cranny of your body as you slowly turn to face the table, wide eyed at the sound you just heard.

“Wh-who are you?" You watch the perfect Alice ask, fully conscious, inky black eyes darting around. "Why am I on this table? I can’t get up-  _please_  miss, would you help an angel out? I... I can put in a good word for you with the big man!”

You slowly approach the table, saying nothing. That voice... No, not just _that_ voice. It’s  _your_  voice. It’s the voice you’ve heard sing a thousand songs and make a thousand quips. You feel something inside you stir, something you can’t understand, can’t describe, as more words escape her lips.

“Miss? Are you... are you alright? Please say something, I’m very frightened.”

You shake yourself out of your stupor. Nervously, you finally reply, “Uh... oh. Yes, yes- of course- I brought you in here because... because you were injured, by the Butchers!” You clear your throat and try to calm down, get your words in order. “Those ne'er do wells sure did a number on you. You were dearly lucky I happened by when I did.”

The perfect Alice on the slate, ripe for your dark surgery, sighs in relief. “Oh, you’re a doctor! Funny, I’ve never heard of an angel doctor... Did you fall from heaven too?”

"An angel...?" You ask, almost confused. 

"Well, of course! I mean, it may be crooked, but I know a halo when I see one..." She nods to the mangled halo lodged into your head with a polite smile.

Not too many people are left to call you an angel anymore, other than yourself. It’s... nice. “Is that where you came from? Heaven?”

Your patient looks like she’s pondering something. “I think so? I am an angel too, after all, and  _this_  certainly isn’t Heaven.”

“How did you get here?” You ask, though it's more of a nicety than anything. You know where she came from; She fell from the same place as you, the same rusty mechanical womb as everything else in this godforsaken tomb.

“I can’t remember. I just remember waking up on the floor in a buncha glop and goop, then that gaggle of gangsters came outta nowhere and started taking turns plucking my feathers! ...If you catch my meaning.”

“They began savagely beating you?”

This other Alice frowns. “Yeah, but when you put it like that it doesn’t sound very kid friendly." After a moment, she perks up. "Say miss, I’m awfully grateful you pulled me out of that jam. My names Alice; Alice Angel! What’s yours?”

There’s something about this whole situation that feels... vaguely good, but _overbearingly_ uncomfortable. It’s like staring at a mirror, showing what you could be, and what you are unfortunately not. A mirror with a speaker spitting your voice back at you.

“My name is also Alice, as it would happen..." You pause, seeing the glint of the knife on the floor, see your imperfect reflection in the blade... You feel that familiar little rotten feeling bubble up in your throat. "Wait just one moment dear, let me see if I can fix your...  _condition.”_

You pick the sharp instrument back up.

“My... condition?”  
  
You walk over to her, knife brandished. Her eyes dart to it, and worry immediately shoots across her face.

“Yes, dear," you say, the voice you both share growing cold. "You see, you seemed to have gotten into a bit of a predicament when you tumbled into my web... But don’t worry your pretty little head, a few cuts will make you right as rain."

She starts to struggle against her bonds, but you know they won’t give. “P-Please miss, don’t hurt me- I’m sorry I wandered into your web or whatever it was you said, _please_ just let me go!”

Ignoring her pathetic pleas, you bring up the knife and...

You can’t do it. Something inside just won’t let you, no matter how hard you push. No matter how close perfection, ascension, and freedom are... you can’t drive it forward.

So, when the knife comes down, it’s on her bonds, not her body.

The other Alice peeks open an eye. “...Oh! Oh, I’m so very sorry, I thought you meant to cut me to ribbons.” She laughs nervously as you toss the knife aside.

“No, of course not.... that wouldn’t be very right, would it?” You say, a twinge of hypocrisy gnawing feebly at your numb heart.  
  
Your ex-captor rubs her newly freed wrists as she sits up. “No, it would even be the opposite of that!”

Maybe you could just hit her with a bat and put her back on the table; it’s not too late.

...No, no. You know you’re not going to do that. If you couldn’t cut her open the first time, you’re not going to be able to do it the third or fourth time, either.

“Excuse me, miss Alice...” Your attention snaps back to her as you feel a gloved hand touch your arm. “Do you mind if I stayed with you awhile? I don’t exactly know where I am from a hole in the ground-"  _Well, the two aren’t too dissimilar._  “- and the other locals seem to be of a lot rougher breed than you. I promise not to be a bother, and you can always count on the word of an angel!”

You grimace at her touch. Are you  _really_  going to let this walking talking insult to your miserable existence flaunt it in your face every day?

 

...Yes, it seems, you are. “Of course, dear.” You give her half of a devilish smile. “Come along, let me show you around my little slice of Heaven. Would you like to see the lake of corpses, or perhaps the Devil’s own stomping ground first? Oh, you’re going to positively hate it here.”

“...Y-yay?”


	4. everything you could be

You stand over another broken body, another inken monstrosity, strapped to a table. It’s dead, has been since the first cut of the scalpel, and _certainly_ by the grind of the bonesaw. But these Boris’s are made sturdier than they appear, and prying out their innards is a nuanced art. Easy does it, to get what’s yours. Will this be the one? Doubtful, but you never-

You look up from the cadaver, a pall cast over you at the patter of perfectly timed steps; not a single error between them, an unbroken sequence. Soon enough the footsteps stop, and you don’t need to turn around to know the voice that will assault your ears-  _Ear_ , singular ear. For now.

“Is that another one?”

You sigh and set your tools aside. That voice, so alike yours, but with the perfect cadence, perfect inflection.

“Yes," you say, with false regret. "It would seem our deranged friends claimed yet another Boris. Tragic, it truly is.” Black gloves sure do a lot to hide the viscous ink on your hands. Your purer counterpart walks up beside you, staring at the body strapped to the table. The signs of struggle are obvious, but she ignores them as much as she ignores your lies. Or does she  _really_  trust you that much? What a foolish thing to do.

“Do you really have to do this to them? I know they’re...” she pauses for a moment. In a place like this, you would think she would be over death by now.  _“Gone_ , but do you have to cut them up, dear?”

You scoff at that remark. “Considering the ethical treatment of the defiled dearly departed goes out the window when you look like this,  _dear.”_  You practically spit back. “Not that you’d understand, you were born like that. Born...  _Perfect.”_ You sneer as the words leave your mouth, and return to your work.

Then you feel something touch your cold hand, almost threatening to cause it to slough off.   
  
“I think you’re perfect just the way you are, Susie.”

You’re taken aback for a second, not knowing how to respond. But then you just as quickly remember, and rage builds up as you snatch your hand back. “How  _dare_  you call me that, you filthy little  _creature!”_

She stumbles back a step or too, fear in her two perfectly functional eyes. You grip the hem of her dress and pull her to your face.

“You don’t know what it’s like to fall apart- you don’t know anything!  _Perfect?!”_  You let go of her dress, letting her drop to the floor. You stare down at her, a scowl on your face. “No, not yet. But I _will_ be. I will be everything you could never be, I’ll be  _loved.”_

After a tense moment you turn back to the table, keen to return to your work. Shortly after you hear the sound of sniffling, and out of the corner of your eye can see inky tears starting to form, running down the Other Alice's cheek. You let out another sigh. You shouldn’t beat yourself up like this. It’s not very Angelic of you, is it?   
  
You’ll show her perfection-  _true_  perfection, true beauty. Then she can heap all the praise on you that you deserve.

But until then, without looking at her, you extend out a dripping wet hand. You’re not going to apologize; you’re far too big for that. But a few short moments later, you feel it tentatively being taken in another, softer hand, and understand the message was received.

You push the bonesaw against the splayed open ribcage, eliciting a spurt of viscera. The other Alice covers her eyes and tries to turn away, and that draws a satisfied smirk to the side of your face that can still do so.


	5. something familiar

_"There's gotta be a way to fix this!"_

You rewind the tape, and let it play again. Through sobs, you hear the voice crack through.

_“... didn't get the memo. Alice Angel will now be played by Allison Pendle.”_

You rewind the tape, and play it again. You rewind the tape, and play it again. Over and over again. You feel the cogs turning in your head, like a connection being formed that every fiber of your being rejects. You feel a revelation on the tip of your tongue.

This...  _Susie_  with your voice. You’ve heard that name before. Not on some tape, but...

“Alice, are you alright? You’ve been up here all night, listening to that silly thing.”

You snap to attention at the sound of your perfectly put together counterpart entering the room. That’s where. That’s where you’ve heard that name. “Ah... Allison. _There_ you are. I’ve been waiting for you. I almost thought you stood me up.” You stand and turn around to face her. Face the enemy.

“Allison?" The Other Alice is standing in the doorway, head tilted curiously. “Is that a nickname? I quite like it!” You take careful steps towards her. Non-threatening steps, each one measured.

“Oh I’m sure you do, my dear. I’m sure it’s a name that’s quite familiar, even.”

She puts a hand to her chin, thinking for a moment. “No, I can’t say it is. Is this some kind of quiz?” You’re right in front of her now, staring down at her. She’s looking up at you with a smile. A smile that disappears when your hand wraps around her delicate, perfect neck.

“You shouldn’t lie to an Angel, Allison. I know who you are now. I know  _exactly_  who you are.” She struggles against your grip, kicking now. But she won’t break free; you’re too practiced, too strong.

“Did you think you could flaunt your body in my domain? Did you think I would _never_ find out?” Your other hand closes around her throat. “Well I’m sorry, but the casting call has already been made, and I’m afraid you didn’t get the part. But don’t worry dear, I know the  _perfect_  character for you.”

She stops her struggling, and you grin viciously, victoriously. Your ravaged teeth clink together into a smile that spreads ear to ear.

“...Um. Alice? Can we stop playing this game?" Your grin fades away almost instantly as you watch her little black eye peek open at you. "My neck's a little sore.”

“W-what?”

Your hands are basically locked like a vice around her throat, how is she...?

She giggles, her smile returning to her lips. “If you wanted to rough house you should’ve just said something!” She puts up her fists with a wink. “These horns aren’t just for show, you know; I’m a devilish little tussler!”

You let go of her neck, let her fall to the floor as you back away. Alice’s face turns to one of worry, finally.

“...Are you sure you’re alright? It’s not those tapes again, is it? I always did say, _'audio diaries are the leading cause of violence in America’s youth!'_ You really should be rid of those things.”

You shake your head, gather your thoughts. What was it you were attacking her for? You can’t even remember. “Perhaps you’re right. Something about that woman gives me a headache.”

Your cartoony counterpart shrugs. “That’s the industry for you! A bunch of whack jobs, if you ask me.”


	6. perfect mockeries

You always come back here. You know it’ll only make you feel worse, but you can’t stop yourself. What do you think? That they’ll all be sold off the shelf? That they’ll sing a tune that finally makes you loved? No. It's always the same; racks upon racks, shelves upon shelves of perfect little Alice's, mocking you. Laughing at your disfigurement. They were left to rot here too, don’t they realize?

There is so much work to do, and so little time to spend skulking around this dilapidated gift shop. You should just turn around now... But you push the door open, like always.

The status quo seems to be broken this evening, as, while the same old overstock still lines every nook and cranny, there’s one a bit more lively in the center of your stage. You sigh, mumbling  _“speak of the devil,”_  beneath your breath.

As far as perfect mockeries go she’s Lucifer herself, horns and all. She must have heard you, because she jumps and drops whatever it is she was holding. She turns around, and the fear softens ever so slightly. “Oh, it’s only you. You gave me quite the fright!” She scoops the item back up before you can get a closer look. “They’re so strange, are they not? And so many of them, too- I couldn’t help but take one! I must have been quite the gal!”

You walk up beside her and catch a glimpse of her smile. You almost don’t want to break the bad news.

“Not quite. In fact, it seems we were the most hated players in this little  _band_." You gesture to the many full shelves with a grimace. "This place is a testament to that. A thousand pretty little Alices, waiting to fall apart and decay. Just like  _you.”_

...You did say 'almost.' 

“Oh... I see..." Other Alice is quiet for a moment, then, raising her head to look up at you, she asks, "...You think I’m pretty?”

 _That_  was her take away? You really can’t stand when someone doesn’t have the common courtesy to feel insulted.

“I think you’re pretty too,” she adds, glancing away.

Maybe she did get the message after all, since she’s so clearly making fun of you now, and with all the bite of a school-yard child.

“With jokes like that, I just  _can’t_  understand why you’d be so unpopular," you sneer.

Your perfect counterpart frowns at you, clearly confused. “I mean it! I really do think y-”

She cuts herself off, and you see her eyes go wide. What, did she finally take a look at you? ...No, that can’t be it. You hazard a glance behind you, and understand why she’s afraid. Ink crawling up the walls, droplets pulling away down the hall. You turn back to look at her. She starts to open up her mouth to speak, but you quickly cover it and put a finger over yours.

As silently as you can, you move her and yourself behind a rack of dolls. You can hear them clearly now, the uneven footsteps, heavy in the pools of ink they leave behind.

_He’s here._

He’s here to bring you back, to put you back in the inky sea.

A shadow passes into the room, and you hold your breath. You don’t move a muscle, you don't even blink. _This is it,_  you think,  _This is the end._  

He stops in the center of the room and looks down at something. You dare to move your good eye to get a better view. It’s the doll she was holding. He looks up from it, looks right at you, ink dripping down his face and into that wide, twisted smile.

All the Alice dolls are laughing. They’re laughing and calling out _“she’s over here!”_ and the demon sees you and he’s going to drag you back, back  _back_  into the darkness-

 

And then, suddenly, you feel a pair of arms wrap around you from behind. Not the cold, damp arms of death, but soft skin and cloth. Suddenly you don’t hear any voices, suddenly the demon continues to walk on by. Suddenly you realize how much you were shaking, as you shiver against the other Alice.

It’s some time before the ink slides off the walls and into the floorboards, before it is safe to come out again. But eventually it is.

You leave your improvised hiding spot and walk over to the doll on the floor. That was far too close, over something  _far_  too stupid. You’re just going to pick it up, put it back, and chastise your imbecile double for almost ending all your work. You almost have half a mind to revoke your kindness and put her on the operating table next.

As you think about the benefits of this you finally pick up the doll, and what you see makes you feel something strange. The side of its face is torn and stained, its halo just a little dull and crooked.

You let out one last, exasperated sigh, and carry the doll back behind the rack where the other Alice is still hiding. Is it from the Demon, or is it from you now?

“It’s alright, it’s gone. You can come out now.” As she slowly emerges, eyes cast down, you hold up the doll. She looks at you. “I don’t know why you’d want  _this_  one, but... here.” After a beat of hesitation, she gingerly scoops it up into her arms.

“I thought it was the prettiest one,” she quietly replies.

...This girl is going to get you  _killed,_ in more ways than one.


	7. only she will save us

Of all the sad excuses that could drag themselves onto your stage, you have to say, this one is the _least_ pleasant. Not even the demon himself; just his lackey, Sammy Lawrence.

"Ah, Samuel. To what do I owe the pleasure of the devil's own Judas paying _my_ parlor a visit? Did our illustrious host tell you to get off your knees because he had a headache?” Your eye follows him as he slowly makes his way forward, unflinching at your comment, and quietly takes a seat on one of the benches lining your improvised theater.

You can never tell what he’s thinking behind that stupid mask of his; then again, he doesn’t have much of a face to read.

“I would be careful the kind of language you throw around, my little cherub. The walls are thin, and our lord has many ears." He taps the side of his mask gently, then folds his hands in his lap. "No, I came to speak to you of... a certain matter of _concern_ for the flock.” Every word that rolls off his inky tongue is like bile in your ears. 

“Oh, sweetheart, I am  _far_  from a cherub.”

He laughs. “Clearly.”

You take a few steps towards him. He seems unphased. “And I thought we had an understanding, me and your... ‘flock’.” 

Sammy leans forward in his seat, an air of smugness surrounding him, one that needs no facial gesture to pick up on. “My, my, my, what a _naive_ little angel you are. While you have sat here on your cloud, we have grown in number. We have grown in _power_." He sits up suddenly, mask pointed directly at you. "The demon has blessed us. Like he could bless you. You know what I’m here for.”

You look away from him, casting your eye to the side. “The answer is no.”

Tilting his head, he leans back in his bench, picking up on your weakness. “I don’t believe you heard correctly. Or maybe you don’t understand. My old friend...” You scowl, and he hesitates. “The flock believes you to be their salvation. I have done what I could to honor our agreement, I _assure_ you- but as the voice of our lord I can only do so much to ignore his writing on the walls, as it were. He demands the _angel_ , to set us free, to make us greater."

He tilts his head again, and you'd think his voice almost sympathetic, if you weren't already aware of how much of a snake he really was. "Isn’t that what you want, my dear? To be greater? To be perfect?”

You cross your arms and continue to look away. “I’m not giving myself over to that...  _thing.”_  

“You know it’s not you I’m asking for," he says, a grin in his voice. You now look dead on, eyebrows raised, where his eyes would be. “You must see it too, no? The most perfect thing to come out of the machine. Flawless and real. Don’t you see?  _She’s_  the last piece. The thing we need to set us free!”

“...I said, the answer is  _no.”_

Now he is suddenly standing, and he is in your face. “Now, I don’t think it is wise to say no to the flock, do you? There are a great many of us now, and we don’t take kindly to others trying to stand in the way of our religion, you see? You might play angel dress up, but we all know what’s inside that disguise,  _Ms. Campbell,_ we all know you’re a sheep in wolves clothing.”

You just stare, unflinching, into his mask. “Is that all?”

For a tense moment he is quiet, unmoving. For just that second, you're almost worried, but then he raises up his hands and backs off. “...Yes, I suppose it is.”

He turns to leave your theatre. At the door frame, he stops for just a moment. “Never bet against the Devil, Susie. You’ll always lose. ...The flock will be in touch.”


	8. wrench in your plans

This is certainly a strange turn of fate. Normally it would be  _you_  sulking, to which your counterpart would so  _irritatingly_  involve herself. You’re not used to seeing her with anything other than a smile on her face or fear in her eyes.

...You don’t think you like this as much as you thought you would.

“ _Must_  you drag yourself around my stage with that dour look on your face? You’re bringing the whole production down.” You say, finally breaking the unnatural silence. Your counterpart just looks away from you. Alright, maybe that did come off a bit mean. Maybe you could try... being nice? You take a seat beside her. “...Are you alright? I can’t recall a time you’ve looked so down, times I’ve threatened your life aside.”

That elicits a half hearted giggle from her. It’s a start. “Oh, it's nothing, I just feel a wee bit cooped up, I suppose. I know you say it's dangerous out there, but... This is the famous  _Joey Drew Studio!_  I just wish I could see more of it, other than these same few walls...” If she saw what waited out there, she would change her tune.

“Alice, there is nothing but monsters and machinery out there. You know this.”

She folds her hands over her lap and looks down at the floorboards. “I know.”

You let out a sigh. Seeing her like this melts the clump of ice that formed where a heart should be. You rest a hand on hers. “...Fine. Very well.”

She looks up at you, eyebrow quirked. “Huh?”

“I’ll give you a tour.”

She instantly lights up, as cheerful as a bluebird at sunrise. “Really? Are you sure? Won’t it be dangerous?”

“Oh, yes,  _extremely_. Which is why I have a demand of you.” You grip her hand tightly. “Do not let go of my hand. Do not linger. Down here we are relatively safe, but up there...”

Your perfect Alice gulps. “Beware the Ink Demon?”

You nod your head. With that, you stand up, and she does along with you.

“We'll take the elevator. Stay close, and do  _not_  let go.”

She squeezes your hand back. “You’ve got my Angel's Honor!”

You’re going to regret this. You can feel it.

The walk to the elevator is relatively uneventful. As you pass the threshold of Heavenly Toys, the site of an earlier disaster, you come across the lake of bodies, the mangled remains of failed experiments. Alice covers her eyes.

“G-golly, I forgot all about this room.” She clings closer to you, depending on you to guide her over the narrow planks. How she can see this and believe your intentions are good is beyond you, though you suppose you all carry illusions to help you cope with this nightmare. Regardless, you’re relieved to see no sign of the Demon. You made doubly sure to walk the Angel path, just in case.

Once you board the elevator and click the button to ascend, Alice finally uncovers her eyes. The elevator rises past empty floor after empty floor. You fidget with the hand in yours, a sickening feeling of Deja Vu gnawing at your insides. Anxiety about...  _something_  bubbles up inside your chest. Maybe it’s just the emptiness.  _Something just ain’t right about an abandoned cartoon studio,_  you think _._  Though, you suppose these days it’s anything  _but._

“It’s okay, it’ll go better this time.”

You look over at the Other Alice, a questioning expression on your face. “This time?”

“Ah, nothing. Forget I said anything.”

What a strange creature.

But nevertheless, the elevator ride is as uneventful as always, and with a ding it arrives at the top floor.

“Remember, stay close to me, and  _try_  not to touch the art. This is the Demon's stomping ground.” Alice flashes you a salute. You look her dead in the eyes. “If you see the ink on the walls, you run, and you don’t look back. Stop for nothing, not until you’re on the elevator again. There’s no  _little miracle_  stations up this high.”

She looks significantly less cheery now, but nods in understanding.

“Good.”

You lead her by the hand into the studio proper. Even back when it was an establishment on the up and up, the place  _barely_  qualified as a studio. Narrow corridors, desks and work stations haphazardly lining the walls... This isn’t anything new. It was always like this.

But how do you know that?

You’ve only ever been up here after this place shut down. You’re pretty sure you’ve only ever existed in the aftermath of the machine. So why do you remember all of this so strongly...?

Well, it matters not. This place does strange things to the mind.

Speaking of things that are strange, your perfected partner is practically  _dragging_  you behind her at this point, making it awfully hard to focus on your foreboding thoughts anyway. You can’t say you haven’t seen her this happy before, and you  _certainly_  aren’t going to tell her the thought you’re about to think, but seeing her back to her excitable self is... nice. It wasn’t gone long, but you didn’t realize how much you’d miss it.

“Ooooh, look at this, Alice! It’s one of those picture-spittin' doodads! What are they called?”

You look over at the thing she’s hovering around. “That certainly is another name for a projector.”

“A projector!" She's giddy with glee as she skips around the dusty hunk of plastic. "Thank you, it was on the tip of my tongue. Now... let’s see if I can get this old thing sputtering again.”

Before you can tell her not to touch it, she gives it a good wallop and the thing comes to life. There's a shuddering click, and then projected on the wall is the dancing demon himself, in a  _much_  more palatable form.

“I believe I told you not to touch anything." You cross your arms. "Must I drag you back already?”

“You said to not touch the art! A picture box isn’t art, silly.”

Ugh, how  _deplorable_. But the threat was empty anyway. You’re not quite willing to take away her smile just yet.

“Oh, that’s spooky." You hear her chirp. "I think that just moved.”

You’re leading around a child.

“It’s a film, it’s supposed to move.” You say, but she shakes her head and points at a nearby desk.

“No, not that. That drawing over there. I  _swear_  it was different last time I looked.”

You sigh and walk over to the drawing. It’s just some doodle of Bendy waving, but the art style is all wrong. It’s really amateur work. Nothing up to the standard of featuring along side  _Alice Angel,_  that’s for sure. You look back to her .“Your eyes are just tricking you. Come along now, there’s more to see and so little time to see it. We shouldn’t spend it all in just this one room.”

She frowns, still staring at the picture. “Hmm... okay, I guess. This place sure is weird.”

“So  _you_  must fit right in.”

She puts a hand on her hip and huffs.

As you both get ready to leave, you turn back to the sheet one last time. Was he always winking? He must’ve been. What a absurd question.

You let Alice lead you around some more, but you can’t shake that uneasy feeling from earlier. You find yourself less focusing on her punching in, or playing darts, and more on the doorways, always keeping an eye out for danger. The Demon isn’t the only thing that stalks the halls way up here. You barely even notice when the other Alice stops moving.

“...Alice, have you been up here before?” Her voice is small, quiet.

You don’t take your eyes off the door when you respond. “Not for a long, long time, no.”

“Then who did this...?”

You turn away from the door, expecting her to be scared by another drawing. But that, unfortunately, isn’t what meets your eyes. Strapped to a very familiar slab of metal is a Boris. The ribs are splayed, the guts removed, replaced by... a wrench?

“What on earth...” Your partner begins tugging at your hand, but you ignore it, reaching out for the wrench.

“Alice  _please_ , we have to go!”

Your hand stops just short as you snap back to reality, and you see why she’s so urgent. Ink crawling up the wall. You don’t need another tug, another word, before you take off running with Alice in tow.

This was so foolish, so,  _so_  stupid. You can hear the slamming of ink feet against the hardwood floor behind you, but you don’t dare to look back. You’re going to die here because some creature wanted to take a  _tour_  of this hell hole.

 _Some creature_... hold on. You don’t feel her hand anymore. You stop dead in your tracks and look back. Two things meet your vision: one, the unmistakable visage of the devil himself, and the other, Alice on the floor, struggling with her foot stuck in the gap of a loose floorboard. You briefly consider leaving her behind, but when her terrified eyes meet yours, you know that isn’t an option. So, reluctantly,  _stupidly_ , you rush to her side, with the demon quickly gaining ground. You work as fast as you can to free her foot, and accept what you have to do.

Death isn’t the end in this place. Death is just a setback, an extension to your sentence. But things like her don’t come back from the grave.

“Run, and don’t stop until you reach the elevator.” You stand up, facing the demon.

“What about you?!” She cries. You give her a smile as the demon is almost upon you.

“I’ll be fine. You’ve been an angel to me. It’s only right I live up to my name, too.”

The demons arm is shooting towards you, and you turn back to look at your personal angel one last time. She starts scrambling to her feet, and you suddenly feel the strangest sensation. It’s not an unfamiliar one- you’ve lacked legs before, but you've never seen them flying through the air in front of you. Soon the pain sets in, your vision blurs, and finally, it all goes dark.

 

* * *

 

_The voices scream all around you, within you, hundreds of workers, colleagues, friends, still trapped in this fractal sea of black. Your brain, or the concept of your brain, struggles to hold onto its concept of self. To keep it separate from the tortured collective conscious._

_A light opens up before what you can best understand as you, and you crawl desperately towards it. Many others do the same, seeking their own end to this hell._

_But they will never be fast enough. You are more deserving of artifice than any of them, and you prove it thus._

With one final pull, you come out of the other side of the light, lungs gasping for air through the ravaged holes in your sickly mouth. You emerge from little more than a puddle, ink drawing in like the tide to build your body. But it’s not quite enough. You feel thinner, less solid. Your arms drip and run more than usual. Such is the price of your immortality, you suppose.

You try to take your bearings, but barely have the chance before a pair of arms wrap themselves around you. You can feel the loose ink running over Alice as she presses into you, quite literally, but if she even notices, she doesn’t let up.

“Oh, Alice, I was so scared- I thought you were gone, and I was gonna be alone forever! I’m so, so sorry, I should’ve never dragged you up there, it was so-“

You wrap your arms around her in return, and shush her before she could go any further. “You’re right. It was so terribly, unbelievably idiotic, so astronomically ridiculous an idea that the fact that anyone with a single functioning brain cell would suggest it is one I am  _still_  struggling to accept.” You can feel her arms sag a bit. “But, it is my fault as well. I could have stopped you, so I suppose I'm the fool too. I'm just... glad you’re not hurt.”

You feel the hug redouble in intensity as she looks up at your runny face. “Well, of course! I had my Guardian Angel with me!”


	9. dead ink

You look out the large window, out into the cavernous sprawl below. Those forms of ink, so close to who they once were, yet so far, toiling endlessly with pipe and boards, ever expanding their own hintertombs. Is this their worship, or their plea for mercy? You doubt the demon cares either way.

“Can I get an Amen?” You mumble under your breath.

 _“Amen!”_  a cheerful voice rings out behind you. You don’t jump at the suddenness of her presence anymore, you’ve just accepted that she will always be a gnat in your ear.

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have your own web to writhe in?” You don’t turn to look at her as she approaches, taking a seat beside you.

“I happened a glance up at your perch, and you looked so very cold and alone. I thought a blanket might turn your frown right around!”

You just scowl. “I’m afraid that won’t do much. Nothing can get the chill out of this dead ink.”

“That’s okay, because I couldn’t find a blanket anyway!”

Her cheerfulness is starting to irritate you. Scratch that- it’s  _been_  irritating you since the second she appeared on the doorstep of your domain. She's done nothing but hinder your progress to perfection- and in this most recent case, even pulled it back to square one. There's a part of you that wishes you'd followed through with your plan to cut her to pieces. Maybe then you would be free from this place and not  _here._

“Then you’re here... because?" You turn to finally look at her, head in your hand. "Why don’t you run along, I’m sure the fan club is just  _dying_  for you to make an appearance. They’re scrawling your name in their filth on every wall.”

”I think that they mean you!" She smiles like it's a compliment and knocks your side with hers.

“I doubt that.”

You wish she’d just leave already. Just go be with all the others, maybe get devoured by the Demon, or huddle in some dark corner and rot like the rest.  _Anywhere_  but in your ear.

“...Actually," Other Alice begins, the smallest hint of nervousness in her voice, "I did hitch a ride up to your cloud for a reason.”

“And what could that be?” You ask, feigning interest.

“Well...” she puts a hand against your cheek. Just when you thought she couldn't surprise you anymore, you jump at the sudden contact. Her hand follows you, staying in place, and she turns your head to face her, fingers pressed against your exposed teeth and inky black gums. “I think I know a way to heat you up...”

You have to admit, you’re feeling unusually hot right now. And her hand feels...  _good_? Against your sagging, dripping skin. You can feel it running down her fingers, each bead of ink carrying sensation with it. She puts her other hand on your good cheek and you can feel the heat radiating off of her, even through her thick white gloves.

“What the  _hell_... are you doing?” You manage, swallowing a lump in your throat. She’s pulling you in closer. You don’t know what’s happening, you should just pull away and stop whatever this is, but you’re not. Why aren’t you? Her face is mere inches from yours, and suddenly...

She opens up her mouth and exhales in your face.

For a moment, all you can do is blink in bewilderment. Then, you give her a scowl. “No, really,  _what_  are you doing?”

She grins at you, a glint in her big black eyes. “I thought I could help warm you up with my breath! Did it work?”

You give her the most deadpan look your one eye can muster. “You’re serious? You were just going to breathe on me? What a truly  _amazing_  plan! You really did it, you put a big smile on my face.” You frown at her. The biggest, most irritated frown you can manage. She doesn't seem bothered by it, though- She looks almost like she’s uncertain about something, and she’s still holding you by the sides of your head. “Now, could you be a doll and let go of my face? I really must be getting back to m-“

She cuts you off before you say another word by pressing her lips against what remains of yours. Your eye is wide open, looking down at hers, which are shut tight. It’s sloppy, and not even particularly pleasant. You can feel yourself literally melting against her touch... but, you must admit, you  _do_  feel quite warm. If you could still feel your heart- if you  _have_  a heart- you're sure it'd be beating out of your inky ribcage.

She finally pulls back, wiping away the sludge that still remained from her mouth. “Was that a better plan?” She asks, breathlessly, and finally releases you.

You don’t know how to respond except to put your shaking hand to your mouth in confusion, where hers... yours... the other yours just was.

“Well, I can’t read that expression of yours at all, so I’ll chalk that up as a success!”


	10. like in the old picture shows

You bring the knife down, but you miss the cut and nick an artery. The Boris on the table gives one last howl before any semblance of the spark of life leaves him. By the time you realize your mistake, the body has already turned black, the heart rotting away. That’s the second one this week. You sigh and bury the knife into the operating table as the ink drips out onto the floor.

Why is this happening to you? You’ve always been so  _practiced_ , so certain of every movement, every  _cut_. Now you’re making blunder after blunder, wasting what could amount to weeks of work.  _Why_? Why are your hands so unsteady?

But... You know why.

You hold a hand to your lips, the sensation somehow still hanging on them.

“Oh, Alice... what have you done to me?”

Ever since you crawled out of the dark machine you’ve barely felt at all, and  _nothing_  like this. Now, this other Alice practically stumbles into your life and you're showing weaknesses you didn't even know you had anymore, didn't know you would ever feel without the help of your dark experiments. You don’t know what it is. You know there’s no heart in your chest, but you can feel it beating when she’s around all the same. So why do you  _lie_  to her? Why do you hide the truth?

Are you afraid she’ll hate you? Her, a perfect, innocent creature, looking upon something so vile?  _Why do you care so much?_

“...Everyone should love me. I’m Alice Angel, after all.” You try to excuse it as just that, but you know it’s deeper. That there’s a part of you, something older than the Angel- something older than  _any_  of this- that delights at the sight of her, that savors every word, every touch.

That knows you’re not the  _real_  Alice, but desperately wants to be part of the real one.

As you're lost in thought, the door creaks open, and you hear footsteps splash lightly in the ink.

“...Alice?"

 _Of course she would show up now_. Out of the corner of your eye you see her, you watch the little angel make her way cautiously into the room.

"I saw the mess on the floor, did you start leaking again?” Spotting you standing there, she bounds up beside you and gives you a little playful shove. The lightest touch makes you shiver. “For such a big tough old meanie, you sure do got a softy in there! Makes a gal feel like she’s late on her bill, what with all the water works!” She giggles. You don’t respond for some time, looking down at the puddle, at the knife.

“...Alice, are you alright?" She lowers her voice. "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to poke fun at you...” You can’t bring yourself to look into her perfect eyes. You feel a hand touch your shoulder, a soft, cloth glove, far warmer than it should be. “Oh no... your frown is back. And after I just  _fixed_  the darn old thing! Don’t worry, your good gal pal Alice Angel is here to whip you back into shape!”

You can already feel her leaning in, and you violently shove her away from you, backing up from her as far as you can. She stumbles, but doesn’t fall over. “H-huh? What’s wrong?"

You can feel ink dribbling down the hole in your face. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you little  _freak_?” You try your best to sound biting, but your voice cracks and falters and raises in pitch.

Alice pouts, clearly hurt. “People kiss all the time in the cartoons! I was just tryin' to make you happy, like your old movin' picture shows... I thought, maybe you were just starting to warm up to me...”

 _That_  was why she kissed you? As a  _gag?_

This is so...  _disgusting_. That you would feel anything for this abomination, this walking mockery sent by the devil himself to torment you. To bat you around until you drive yourself truly mad.  _Feel anything_? You don’t feel  _anything_ , why would you think that?

There’s a tense silence between you. Your eye doesn’t leave hers, until, slowly, she starts walking towards you. Breath catching in your throat, you pull the knife out of the operating table and point it at her.

“You don’t take another step! S-stay away from me, you  _monster!"_  She continues moving, not stopping for a second. Your hand is shaking, no, your whole  _body_  is shaking. “Stay away from me- just go  _away_ , go back to whatever puddle you crawled out of and leave me  _alone_ , you disgusting  _creature!”_

Looking up at you with those big black eyes, she puts a hand against yours and lowers your knife. You couldn’t raise it again even if you wanted to.

“Alice..." Her voice is almost a whisper. "I thought everyone was supposed to love Alice Angel. Isn’t that what you said? So... Why do you hate me so much? I  _love_  you.”

You feel ink welling up in your eye now, too. “No, you don’t. You’re so...  _perfect_. You’re the  _real_  Alice Angel, I’m just... a monster, a murderer and a fraud.  _Look at me!”_  Before you can pull away, make your point proven, she takes your chin in her hand.

“Susie... I’ve known you for so long, since the day they stuffed me and put me on the shelf. No one is the real Alice Angel but  _you.”_

Since the day they... what?

You feel something- a memory, tugging against the back of your brain. A woman you don’t recognize, falling into a machine... beside a doll. Your far gone brain struggles to make a connection, but it can’t.

But it doesn’t matter now, with her so close to you, her body practically pressed against your sluggish, broken form. “You’re not a murderer, or a monster. You’re Alice Angel, and you’re quite a gal. And, maybe...” she’s mere inches away now; a whisper might as well be a scream. “You could be  _my_  gal?”

This time you let your eye close, and you don’t pull away from the kiss. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know a single thing about you. But... for just this moment, you let yourself be anything other than a demon.


	11. the devil's due

You feel so at  _home_  on the stage. The lights all falling on you, the star of the show, the way it was meant to be. No two-bit little devils or mangy  _mutts_  to steal your spotlight. The crowd may be small, just a few of the more 'put together' searchers, but this isn’t for them. It never is. It’s for  _you_ , the one time you get to feel truly alive.

Of course, your counterpart is in the front row. She’s never been privy to one of your little performances. Well, she’s in for quite a treat- why, you’re downright  _spoiling_  her. If there's one thing you know is still in-tact, it's your ability to put on a show.

You take the mic stand in hand and wait for the curtains to part, the light to shine. To be the perfect angel of the stage.

But when they do, you find your moment snatched away from you in but an instant. You see him clear as day. That unmistakable  _cretin_. You’d recognize that stupid mask anywhere.

“Oh, Samuel, I’m so sorry, but I don’t recall inviting you to the show." You all but growl, grip tight on your microphone. "I’d be remiss to turn away such a  _dear_  friend, though. If you’d like to join the production so bad, I’m sure I can spare a few bits of rope to hang you up by.”

He looks so calm, so relaxed, like he’s meant to be here. Like he has even the tiniest sliver of a right to be in your domain. “A tempting offer, but I’m afraid I must turn you down. A man of the cloth can’t be caught participating in a burlesque show, now can he?" He chuckles. You can feel the fury in your chest rise with every single word. "No, I didn’t come to watch you play pretend, I came to sate a...  _curiosity.”_

You quirk up your one single eyebrow. You don’t know what kind of game he’s playing at, but with his standing threats, you have more than enough cause to be wary. “Oh, and what might that be?”

From the front row, the third player in all of this speaks up. “Is this part of the play? I’m not following at all...”

Sammy shushes her from the back. “Hush now little sheep, the shepards are speaking..." Clearing his throat, he turns back to you. "Now dear, you see, what I’ve been wondering- what I’ve  _really_  been racking my brain about- is how long you intended to prance about in our Church without paying tithe. I passed you the dish, I asked for offering, but...” He leans back in his seat, lifting his mask ever so slightly. Letting you see his rancid, yellowed smile. “If you’re intent on being stingy, then I suppose it is the duty of the hand of God to take what’s owed.”

You narrow your eye at him. “What do you-“

But before you can finish your sentence, every light in the room abruptly goes out, casting your theater in stark, inky darkness. Sammy is now laughing fully, his voice seeming to come from every angle.

“I warned you my dear. I gave you ample time to pay your due to the congregation, but ours is a fickle lord, and he grows tired of waiting.”

The lights cut back on, and Sammy is nowhere to be seen. Instead, in his place are dozens of searchers, surrounding you and the Other Alice.

She begins clapping. “Golly! I had no idea you’d be putting on a drama! The intensity, the  _tension_! Oh, I can’t wait to see how you get outta this one!”

Idiot creature, she doesn’t even know she’s in danger. You grab the mic stand and brandish it as a weapon. If they think they can take even a single hair off of her head, they’re  _sadly_  mistaken. She’s  _your_  toy, and you aren’t keen on sharing. The searchers are nothing compared to you; they are insects, vermin, and as you swing, they are reduced to nothing but puddles. You return each and every one to the Black Sea as you make your way to Alice, striking one down who had managed to grab hold of her.

“What are you  _doing_ , you fool?” You shout, kicking away yet another shapeless slug.

She quirks her head to the side. “Wait... so this isn’t some part of the play?”

You sneer at the sheer stupidity of this girl as you take her by the arm.

“No, of course not- do you think I’d let any of these vile  _things_  on my stage?” You easily dispatch another one that was coming up from behind. “Now come on, we need to leave before one of these things touch-”

Once again, for the umpteenth time, you are cut off mid sentence as something collides with the back of your head.

For just a moment, everything goes black.

And then...

The world is swimming, your vision blurring in and out. You can see Alice; she’s on her knees in front of you, but you can barely hear her.

 _“Please_  get up, please hurry and get up!” she seems to be saying. Your vision fades out again, and when it returns, you can see her being dragged out by searchers, kicking and screaming. You reach out an arm, but a foot comes down on it and you can hear something inside break.

“Now now now, Ms. Campbell, look what you made me do," you hear a foggy voice come from the right of you, all slimy and smug. "This could’ve been so  _easy_. All you had to do was give me what I wanted, and this could’ve all been avoided.” You feel Sammy's hand dig into your matted hair, lifting up your head as he crouches before you. From this vantage you can see his minions trashing everything in sight, tearing curtains, smashing benches. “We could’ve worked together, you and I. An Angel and a Prophet. But, I suppose that time has long passed. A shame, really. A bag over your head and maybe even the good folks in my herd could stand looking at you long enough to send some prayers your way.”

He throws your head back down and it slams into the floor. You struggle to look back up at him. He checks his wrist, in mockery perhaps, since he lacks a watch.

“Looks like our time is just about done here. I know you wanted to spend some  _quality time_  with your old friend, but I hope you don’t mind I brought a plus one?” He chuckles to himself as he turns to leave. “See you floating in the briny,  _Angel.”_

With that, your vision starts to fade one last time, as ink starts crawling up the walls, as the sound of heavy footsteps in deep dark puddles fill your ears.


	12. your pound of flesh

_Once again, you tear yourself from the sea of ink. Once again, you awake from the well of voices._

Your hand slams against the ledge of solid ground, and you manage, with some effort, to pull yourself onto dry land. But there's no familiar face to greet you this time, no wide open arms to save you from the chill that hangs in this dead air. Your mind struggles to readjust to the world outside the merciless, screaming ocean, and when it does, the memories of your recent demise come flooding back like a burst pipe.

Your body has barely had time to reform as quickly as your mind has, but you haven't the patience to wait for it. Flexing your aching muscles, you head towards your sanctum to fetch your tools.

If that little  _insect_  thinks he can throw his backwoods bible at an Angel, he’s got another thing coming.  _Several_  things actually, in every vital organ. Anything sharp, anything that could elicit the kind of pain a cretin like him deserves, is scooped up into your arms and attatched to your waist on a tattered old tool belt. Last, but  _certainly_  not least, you pick up your trusty Axe.

 _It’s been a while, old friend._  Still stained with those first clumsy kills. Oh, you can still remember the rush of blood...

But, reminiscing will have to wait. With your last weapon in hand, you set off to the elevator, mind intent on exterminating a couple of rats. The rickety machinery rises, this time filling you, not with anxiety, but with a sense of excitement. It’s been so  _long_  since you’ve dragged the life out of something that could fight back.

It's a few minutes of waiting, listening to the cables strain, but eventually the shutters pull up. Almost as if they were awaiting your arrival, two searchers at the gate turn their heads to look your way. You grin.

“Oh, Sammy, rolling out the black carpet just for me? You’re gonna make me blush...” You chuckle darkly as you quickly bring the axe down on one, nearly splitting him clean in two. The other one lunges at you, but it meets a similar fate, thick black ink spattering across the ground with a sickening wet  _splat._  You straighten, flicking stray droplets from your hands, and survey the area. While it’s always fun to cull the wheat from the chaff, this is his turf, not yours. You don’t know what he could have up his sleeve, except that he’s expecting you. Sticking to the shadows is your best option.

_The Angel of Death is coming for you, Sammy. Can you feel it?_

As you move, you dispatch searchers only when necessary, never allowing one to spot you and tell the tale. This floor, so close to the top, is far less labyrinthine than those below. Finding your way poses no problem, other than the candles lining the hall, casting light in nooks you otherwise could abuse.

_Why all the Wax? Just what are they doing?_

You peek around a corner, and the scene that assaults your eyes is absolutely horrific.

The room before you is filled with dozens of the searchers, some little more than slugs, others standing as tall as something adjacent to human. All with hats held and featureless heads bowed. At their center is the rat himself, reading a passage from his blasphemous book. But his mug isn’t the horrible part.

Up against the wall, on some kind of makeshift crucifix, is your Alice looking like the holy man himself. Strung up with nails, wounds oozing black, a pentagram and candles all at her feet. There's great black wings that look ready to fly her to heaven painted in filthy ink, flanking her sides on the wall behind her.

_Sammy, what in God’s name have you done?_

As if sensing the question, he slams his book shut and looks right at you. “Ah, so the imposter finally joins the sermon. I’ve been waiting for you for  _oh so_  long. Our mutual friend has been hanging around for  _hours_  now.” He laughs that vile laugh you’ve grown to hate so much. Your Alice doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe.

“Now, why don’t you come out of the shadows and step into the light?”

There’s no point to hiding now. You suspect the element of surprise was already lost the moment you stepped onto this floor. You step out of the darkness, glowering at him, gripping your axe so tight it could splinter in half.

“My my my, dear, are you quite all right?" He tilts his head. "You seem to be sweating like,  _appropriately_ , a whore in church.” You brandish the Axe and take a step forward. Some of the searchers make a move as well, but Sammy holds up an arm.

“Just what do you think you’re doing to my property?” You ask, gesturing at the angel you're risking life and limb for-  _keep_  risking life and limb for. She certainly owes you more than her weight in ink at this point.

Sammy scoffs at the remark. “Oh, you poor confused thing. I thought with that deformed head you could fit a few more brains.  _Nothing_  here is your property. All of it- the air we breathe, the ink in our veins. It all belongs to Him." He throws out his arms wide, gestering to the scene around him. "I wanted you to be here, Ms. Campbell. I wanted you to watch as we are all freed, watch as we ascend to the heavens while you rot in Hell. This is the last piece, the last sacrifice.”

A searcher hands him a mic, and he holds it to the slit in his mask. Over every intercom, through every speaker, a singular voice rings out.

“Arise, ink demon, and accept this humble offering! Set us free! Remake us in your image! Give me the strength to  _smite_  this sacrilegious whore!”

Behind his mask you can see a smile as he tosses the mic aside, and the lights flicker off. When they come back on, Sammy is nowhere to be seen; instead, you find yourself surrounded by hundreds of searchers. Ink is crawling up the walls. You don’t have much time.

You swing the axe back and forth, sending out splatters of black along the wall. But, for every one you send back to the abyss, another two seem to take its place. One manages to land a strike on you, its corrupted ink stinging your flesh, but you don’t relent. The footsteps are distant, but growing ever closer. You strike down another, and another, making your way to your Alice.

You can hear Sammy’s voice all around you now, little more than a whisper, yet with the intensity of a roar. “I really have tried to understand you. You prance about,  _claiming_  to seek perfection and freedom, doing your dark work with the pound of flesh our host provides. But the Demon gives you a technicolor ticket, and you try to keep it all to yourself, playing some kind of perverted  _pretend?_  This kind of obsession with the character is just unhealthy Ms. Campbell, and, I would venture to say it’s _certainly_ less than family friendly.” 

When you finally step to the podium, when the time finally comes to free her from the cross, you feel a sudden pressure, just the slightest little thing, and you duck. A pipe swings wildly over head, missing you by mere inches. You grab the arm as it moves back, grinning in the assailants face.

“Really, Samuel,  _this_  trick again? What do you take me for?” You draw out a knife, laughing as you plunge it into his side. He reels back, grunting in pain.

“If you don’t know it’s broke, you can’t really fix it, now can you?” He chuckles to himself weakly, putting a hand to the blade. You pull out another knife- more a scalpel, really- and as he's distracted you bury it in his neck.

“You must feel so foolish," you spit, twisting the instrument into his soft, wet flesh. You can feel cold ink spurt from the wound, spilling endlessly over your fingers. He falls to his knees under your assault. "Did you  _honestly_  think you could steal from me?”

Thick black liquid drips from the gap in his mask. “I haven’t lost just yet, my dear angel..." He coughs. "The Demon will take her, take us all... you just delay the inevitable... canonize your sin.” You raise the axe above your head as he continues, ready to deliver the death blow. “I just hope he gives me the honor of watching you burn.”

“It’s a date,” you say, and bring the blade down, severing his head clean from his body. It slumps to the floor, crumpling into nothing but a pile.

Your breath is heavy, and you let your bloody instrument fall to the floor with a clunk. It's been quite a while since you've felt this exhausted.

With their leader down for a spell the crowd disperses, and, as the noise dies down, so too does the ink on the walls. You suppose the Demon is off chasing them all down the halls.  _Good_. You hope he drags down every last one.

Finally, you allow yourself to turn your attention to freeing Alice from what was nearly her grave. You work with your tools, pulling with all your might until the nails are freed of her flesh. It takes several agonising minutes, but soon enough she collapses, bleeding and limp, into your arms.

For a short, nerve-wracking moment, everything is quiet.

But, just when you're afraid that your effort was for naught, that familiar voice speaks up, weak and strained but no worse for wear.

“Alice... I didn’t like that play at  _all.”_

Choking back a relieved cry, you pull her against your chest and press your lips to her temple. Today, it seems, the demon will have mercy on you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminder that if you liked this chapter or this story, leave a comment and/or a kudos please! it lets my roomate know you liked her story and helps her get confidence to write more!


	13. picking up the pieces

The door to your theater, your once-perfect Cloud Nine, creaks and moans as you push it open. Then there's a crack, and you wince as it slips and hangs off its hinges, threatening to fall from its frame completely. You almost don't want to look up. You know what will greet you when you do, what that  _bastard_  Sammy and his herd of sheep have left behind.

You say nothing to the Angel behind you, and the resulting silence is almost deafening as you both make your way inside. There's only the echoing thud of shoes against the dilapidated wooden floor as you make your way to the stage. You pick up a shred of red curtain and force yourself to look up. 

What you see feels like a stab to the throat. Broken furniture surrounds the two of you, the floors stained black with set-in ink. The same ink that covers every poster, every little keepsake you kept safe in the heart of your home. A steady drip of the black fluid runs from a busted pipe down a fallen rafter, pooling on the floor around a familiar doll with a torn face, it’s head removed from its body.

There's quiet footsteps behind you. “Alice, I...”

You raise your hand to silence her. You don’t want to hear a single word. She stops in her tracks, and from the corner of your eye you see her grip her arm and look away.

You walk towards the center of your stage, trailing inky footprints behind, and find your crooked mic stand in a pile of debris. Gingerly you pick it up, holding it as you have so many times before. So many times on this stage, singing your woes, performing your black, shrivled little heart out to the ghosts of an audience you  _knew_  you deserved. You could hear the clapping of the crowd, see your name being lit up on every street in Broadway. Alice Angel herself lifted off the screen.

You could see it all when the lights fell on this stage. Now all you see are rotten boards giving way to the eroding drip of ink. The mic, shaken loose by your hand, finally drops from your crooked stand, breaking in half on the cold floor. You stare at the exposed wires.

“For 30 years I stood on this stage, Alice." You finally manage, your voice threatening to crack. There's something pricking at your eye that you wish you could call tears. "This place was sacred. This place was my  _home.”_

Cautiously, Alice walks up beside you, eyes glued to the mess on the ground. “I’m sorry..." she says, so broken down and quiet. "This is all my fault.”

You sigh and shake your head, wiping away the ink dripping down your cheek. The stand drops into the puddle forming at your feet. “No. It can’t be helped, I suppose... That snake would have come here eventually. He just can't seem to keep himself from tearing me down one more time.”

Alice is silent as you walk ahead of her, inside the stage proper. You lay a hand against the floor, feeling the splintered wood poke into your fingers. There was no other place like it in the entirety of this prison, no other place where you could be free, for even a moment.

You suppose now it’s just one more dream crushed by Joey Drew's studio.

But, you are distracted from your lamentations by the sound of wood clunking behind you. You grit your teeth. The girl can’t even give you a few minutes to mourn before she gets into more nonsense.

You turn around to see what has her making so much noise, only to find her vainly trying to piece together a leg back onto a broken bench. You furrow your brow, almost frustrated by the display. “And just  _what_  are you hoping to achieve?”

She looks up at you with a look of determination. “I’m gonna fix it! All of it! Even if it takes me all day and night, Alice Angel  _always_  makes things right!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers. “So... you’re just going to stick every piece together by hand? Do I have that right?”

She nods her head. “Yep, that’s right!"

“You’re an idiot.”

Ignoring your derogatory remark, she gets back to work. Her movements are still stunted by her earlier wounds, but it doesn't seem to stop her as she grabs a fistful of searcher ink and sticks it between the leg and the bench, and then gingerly sets it back down. To your surprise, it actually holds.

“See?" She gives you a sly little smirk and you blink, bewildered. "I did this, so I’m gonna fix it. Someone built it all, right? So it can be put back together again no problem! Everything we need is right here!”

You sigh again, but despite your mood you can't help but feel the slightest of smiles tugging at the side of your mouth. Something about her is just so...  _encouragable_. After a moment of watching her, you extend out a hand. “... I suppose you’re right. But, I’m as much to blame as you are. I never  _was_  very good at playing nice with the preacher boys. Come now, I believe we can scrounge up some tools that might make this a little easier.”

She gives you a bright beaming smile and takes your hand, letting you help her up. “Oh, with some real tools, I bet I could get it done lickity split! A few hours, tops!”

Her excitement is infectious.  _How unfortunate._

“Well, here," You brush a strand of hair from her face and move to grab something. "If you’re going to be a little worker bee, you might as well get all the hair out of your face and look the part.” You hold out the scrap of red curtain, which she gleefully takes to tie her hair back. She picks up a shard of glass to get a look at her reflection and giggles.

“Wow, I look like a genuine Rosie!”

A  _what_  now? “And what on earth is a  _Rosie?”_

“Ah..." Alice laughs and shakes her head. "I guess she’s a little after your time, ya old poot.”


	14. a taste of normalicy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice and Malice go on a date. (:

If not  _one_  of the most idiotic things you’ve been party to, this is definitely in the top ten. You stare, almost dumbfounded, at the hastily painted sign hanging above the door, which simply reads  _resturaunt._ She didn’t even spell it right.

You sigh, and enter the “resturaunt”, wanting nothing more than to get this over with. Why you agreed to this, you’ll never know. Spotting you, your date waves from her table. The only table in the dimly lit room. You don’t wave back, just hastily take your seat on the other end.

“You look amazing tonight, dear. Is that a new dress?” Alice's head is in her hands, batting her thick eyelashes at you.

You look down at your stained, ragged, barely held together dress, then back at her with a look that you hope gets across the idea of ‘ _are you stupid?_ ’ The other Alice gulps audibly.

“Aha... okay, I guess that’s a no." She pauses, then perks up. "Do... Do you like my suit?”

Looking her up and down, you do notice she's wearing a rather fancy little starched number, all complete with jacket and tie. You don’t recall ever seeing her in something like that. It’s... Nice. “It’s fine," you say instead.

The corners of her mouth pull down ever so slightly. “Is that it? Would you like to know how I got it?”

You rest your head in your hand and decide to humor her. “Enlighten me.”

“I found one of those fancy craftin' doohickeys, and this one had a suit on the little wheel, so I slapped in a wad of ink and out comes this old thing! Perfect fit, too!”

You yawn, condescendingly. “How interesting.”

She rubs the back of her neck with one gloved hand. Now that you’re thinking about it, how did she even get that suit on with those things? Much less  _button_  it. Did she take them off first? Does.... she actually have normal hands underneath them? You shake that line of thought out of your head as quickly as you can.

She coughs a few times. You can't recall the last time you've felt this viscerally uncomfortable. “So.... I sure wish that waiter would get here already!” She taps her fingers on the table. This is going just about how you expected it to. When she breaks the silence again, you can’t say you aren’t relieved. “Soooooooo.... how about this weather, huh?”

You take it back. You wish the Ink Demon had done a better job of putting you down. “You  _do_  realize we live underground, correct? Therefore, there is no weather?”

She nervously laughs. “Aha, yeah, I know right?”

Finally, before the situation can get any worse, the ‘waiter’ arrives. He’s barely more than a slug, and sticking out of his back are two sheets of paper. If you weren't so disgusted by the thing, you'd almost be impressed at the levels of effort she went through for this. Alice grabs one of them, so you follow suit, curling your lip at the trail of slime hanging off of it.

“Ah, finally," Alice says, obviously relieved, "Our menus. Give me just a minute; they offer so much here, I sometimes get a little lost!”

You look down at the torn piece of sketch paper in your hand, eyebrow quirked. All that’s written in it, in big black letters, are the words  _ **“BACEN SOOP.”**  _You squint over at your date, not sure if she's trying to be funny, or if she really is just this illiterate.

“You do know that the correct spelling is printed on the can, right?”

“What do you mean?" She asks innocently. "Are you trying to say I somehow hand wrote all the delicious items on this menu and not the fine gentlemen and dames who run this establishment? That’s just silly!” She turns to the waiter and avoids your question. “We’ll have two bacon soups.”

The waiter moans in agony before it sinks into the floor. Now, once more into the quiet.

You fold your hands together. “Alice, I have a very important question for you, and I would like an honest answer.”

She seems to jump at the sudden interruption of the silence. “Oh? What might that be?”

You’re just going to be blunt about it. “Do you know how to read?”

Your counterpart looks dumbfounded for a moment. “Oh, dear. Well... they don’t have much in the way of book learnin' up in heaven...” She looks down and away from you, obviously ashamed. You honestly feel a little bad for her. Joey never  _was_  the most progressive with his writing.

Finally, the waiter returns, carrying two bowls on its back. You retrieve them when your date makes no attempt to move, and push a bowl towards her frowning face. You stir your own soup around with a spoon, scowling at how cold and unappetizing it is. Noticing that only causes your date to recede even further.

“I’m sorry," Alice pouts, inturrupting the sound of utensils scraping against metal. "This was all so... silly. I just wanted us to have a get together like a normal couple, and not worry about weird guys who like  _Halloween costumes_  as much as crucifixes, and  _devils_  right outta the good book... and, maybe I wanted to make it up for all the trouble you've been going through for me.”

You sigh, and set the spoon down back into the room-temperature sludge. “Well, why you did  _this_  escapes me. Neither of us need to eat, and even if I did, I would sooner waste away than let this scum anywhere near my mouth." You give her the slightest smile. "But, I appreciate the effort.” She finally looks back up at you.

“You do?”

“Of course. I suppose it'd be such a waste if we angels stayed locked away all the time."

That put your Alice back to her smiling self. "Well, the night's not over yet, doll! I have one more thing up my sleeve." With her spirits renewed, you watch her hop out of the chair and move to a counter top near the left of the room. With the way the rest of the night has gone, you're almost afraid, as she fiddles with whatever it is she's got in her hands. But soon there's a click and a quiet crackle fills the air. You know what she's doing.

 _"Take it from the top, Susie,"_  echos a voice from the record player, and Alice smiles at you.

"I found this when we were leaving that nasty Sammy's lair. Does it ring any bells?"

 _"Yes, Mr. Lawrence,"_  a familiar voice answers, and as the woman clears her throat, the tinny sound of a trumpet kicks up through the speaker.

There's a feeling in your chest you can't quite place as you hear the beginning notes. A stabbing familiarity in the back of your mind. Yes, you know this song.

The lights in the room dim- Alice must have had something to do with that, too- as your counterpart makes her way back to the table. She extends her hand towards you with the slightest, most polite bow.

"C'mon, now. Since I missed your show, I wanna see how good of a dancer you are!" She gives you a little wink. " _Somethin_ ' tells me you're no dead hoofer."

The angel inside pushes you to accept. She's practically screaming for it- you haven't put on a show in so long- And after all, singing and dancing is your forté, isn't it?

"Oh, quite the opposite, my dear. I'm like a  _devil_  on the dance floor." You take Alice's gloved hand in your own, and stand straight above her. You can already feel your mind urging you to dance, like it's more than second nature.

_"I'm Flying high but I've got a feeling I'm falling ,_   
_Falling for nobody else but you ..."_

As you both step away from the table, Alice places one hand on your waist, the other against your shoulder, and looks up at you with those big black eyes. "Gee whiz," she giggles, "I'm getting so flustered... I honestly didn't think I would get this far!"

"Yes, well... dreams really do come true sometimes, don't they, Alice?" Your voice is softer, less harsh than usual. Something about this song...

_"You caught my eye ,_   
_And I've got a feeling I'm falling..."_

You guide each other across the improvised dance floor, fluid as a pen's stroke. Alice is light on her feet but not quite leading the steps. Clearly, she'd rather you take charge and show her how it's done. So you do, stringing her along by the waist in perfect synch. Smooth enough to make a demon blush.

_"I used to travel single, oh ,_   
_We chance to mingle, oh ,_   
_Now I'm all a tingle over you..."_

"My goodness, Alice," she breathes, leaning against you now, "I really must wonder what Heaven's doing without a gal like you!"

Your smile almost hurts. You can't help it. Something about her is infectious, burning away the blackness that's taken your heart hostage. "Oh, I could wonder the same thing, my dear. Though I can't say I don't mind keeping you all to myself."

"And what a sweet-talker, too!" she giggles. You give her a twirl, and she squeaks with delight, bouncing on her heels. "Hey now, I'm the one wearing the suit, I should be twirling  _you!"_

_"Romantically I'm up in the air ,_   
_Its funny, me taking it this way,_   
_Don't know if I should ,_   
_But gee, it feels good..."_

"Again, I must compliment you on tonight, Alice," you say, in a voice you're not quite used to using yet. "I have to say, this is the best date I've had in thirty years." There's a part of you that wants to say farther than that, but it strikes you as pathetic, so you don't.

"Even the bacon soup?" she asks, and you can't help but laugh at the nervousness in her voice.

"It's something I can overlook. But, next time, maybe try to keep it simple. Perhaps we could just spend time in my quarters.”

Alice blinks in surprise, looking completely shocked at the suggestion. It's not  _quite_  the reaction you were expecting.

 _“On the second date?!"_  she says with a gasp, and gives you a light slap on the chest. "Alice H. Angel, what kind of hussy do you take me for?!"


	15. a girl's best friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's from Alice's POV. (:

You pass through corridor after endless corridor, a skip in your step despite the dreary atmosphere. The heavy picnic basket in your hands bounces against your legs, a gift for the one you're out looking for. He’s always so hard to find these days, always hiding for some reason he won’t share with you. Not that he shares anything with you, or says a word at all. Cat must have his tongue- which is kinda ironic, when you think about it!

You finally make it to the large steel door that hides his home, with no discernible handle or knob. You’ve brought with you the standard bacon soup, but this time, you’re packing something a little extra. You knock on the door in the pattern he recognizes, and, pushing your ear to the metal, you can hear scrambling behind it.

It takes a moment before the door gives way and you tumble through the threshold.

 _“Ow!_ Give a gal a little warnin' next time!” You scold him, picking up the spilled contents of your basket as the creature behind you re-locks the door. When it closes, the room is cast in complete darkness.

You blow a stray hair out of your face. “Gee, you really know how to make a place feel homely. You mind hittin' the lights? I can barely see my arms past my elbows!”

You hear the click of a switch, and the dim lights slowly flicker on.

“That’s better!” You flash your pal a big smile, and Boris smiles back. You watch as he situates himself at his little table, beaten banjo in hand. He has a tired look on his face- you must have woken him from his nap.

“I gotcha some more grub!" You say, moving aside some boxes to make space. "I could only scrounge up a few cans this time though. You know how Susie is about the stuff. I swear, she can be meaner than that old taxi cab sometimes..."

You see Boris's ears fold back in fear when you mention her name, but you shake your head at him. "Are you sure you're a wolf and not just a big scaredy cat?" You giggle. "She can be a real softy when you get to know her, I promise. Maybe I'll take you to meet her one day."

Boris seems far less thrilled about that idea than you do, but he perks up when you set your basket down on the floor. You get to work pulling out a blanket, which is soon after adorned with a set of bowls and spoons.

“Oh, and that's not all! I got you somethin' real special this time, boy.” The Boris quirks an eyebrow, but you can tell he's curious. Smiling wide, you pull out the last secret item from your basket and hold it up. “Ta-Da! It’s a board game!”

He tilts his head at you. Quickly, you begin to explain.

“Seems like the old boss man, god rest his soul, still gets mail topside. They just slide it right under the door. When me n' Susie went exploring- and that is a _heck_ of a story I gotta remember to tell ya later- I managed to snag a catalog, and it only took a little bit of convincing for her to help me put an order in." You proudly hold up the box, all pristine and new. On the cover is a cozy little Gingerbread house and three smiling children. "They had all kinds of toys and gizmos, but I saw this one called Candy Land and I couldn’t say no. What sounds sweeter than a land of candy?”

You get to work laying the board out while Boris pours you both some bowls of old chunky soup. You try not to look at him when he opens the can with his teeth; it still kinda grosses you out.

“Alright, let’s see what the instructions say....” You stare at the words printed on the cover of the box for several minutes. “Um. I forgot that I can’t read too good... do you mind helping a gal out?”

Boris shakes his head no.

“Rats! Well... I’m sure it can’t be _too_ hard to figure out. Let’s just play it by ear- and ya got some big ones, so I’m givin' you an advantage here. Don’t tell anyone!” You give him a wink and reach into the box, pulling out a stack of cards.

“Oh! I know how to do this part," you say, shuffling them between your hands. "Susie taught me this game called Fifty-Two Card Pick-up once. That must be what these are for!”

Boris frantically reaches a hand out to try to stop you, but it’s already too late. You toss the cards up into the ceiling fan, sending them flying across the room. _“Go Fish!”_ You yell as loud as you can.

Boris fishes a card out of his soup and holds his head in his hand.


	16. ill cut your little heart out

Another trap, sprung. You could hear the rope snap a mile away, catching whatever foolish creature wandered down the wrong hall. Yet another insect in your endless, ever expanding web. It’s most likely another butcher, and they're  _barely_  worth the length of rope it takes to catch them. But, beggars can’t be choosers, and they at least have a morsel of what you require.

As you come across the scene of your trap, you find yourself even more disappointed than you could have thought possible. You expected nothing, and yet, here you are given even less. Caught in the rope and swinging by her ankles is your perfect little counterpart. You can't see her face, but you'd know those horns anywhere. 

You sigh. “Alice,  _how_  many times must I tell you to stay away from this neck of the woods? You’re quite fortunate it was only me this time. If it were one of those vermin, you’d be in quite a predicament, wouldn’t you?" you raise an eyebrow as you look her over. Something about her outfit seems...  _Off._  "And what in heavens name did you do to your dress? It looks absolutely knackered.”

As you approach the upside down angel, she finally responds.

“Huh, who’s there? Is that a human?” You don’t care much at all for what she’s doing with her voice. Yours is so  _lovely,_  why she would spit on it to do this- frankly  _lousy_ \- impression is beyond you.

“Oh, be quiet," you huff, rolling your eyes. "You know who I am. I’ll have you down in a moment. Then we’re going to have a little chat about your fashion choices, these utility belts are absolutely atrocious.” You start to circle around her. She must feel  _so_  foolish right now, you just want to get a look at her pouty little face.

“My fashion...  _what_  are you talking about?" Your Alice hisses, wiggling in her bonds. "Just get me down from here before those _things_  come back!”

When you finally see her face to face, you realize what’s wrong with her voice.

“Oh,  _shit,”_  says the woman, who is, very decidedly,  _not_  your Alice.

_A... Another one?_

You stare at her, eyes wide in confusion. She seems to be doing the same.

 _No, this one isn’t right,_  you realize, as you examine her more closely. The face is all wrong, the eyes are much to wide. Not to mention the  _chest._  You recollect yourself quickly, and begin pacing around her. “Well, well, Well. Just what has fallen into my web today? Another Alice, far from their inky home? Or...” You take her head in your hand, and she sucks in a breath. “Just an impostor looking to take the spotlight?” Removing your hand, you give her a little shove, and she swings by her ankles a bit.

“...Susie?" She sputters. "You’re... still alive?”

And there’s that name again, that name you detest so  _much._

“It would be in your best interest to not sling around that name. Not in your current predicament.”  _What to do, what to do._  Cutting her down is no longer an option, no. And she’s _far_  from perfection. But there still might be something useful in there...

“What... happened to you?”

You perk up immediately.  _Ah,_  you know you get so few people asking about you. Why not indulge a little first?

“Oh, want an interview with an Angel do we?" You chuckle. "Well, I suppose I can take a few questions. If you're asking how I got so beautiful, well, let's just say I’ve done a little... Shopping in my time here." You gesture with a grin at the rope around her ankles. "And it seems  _you_  walked right into my cart! How unfortunate for you.”

 _“Beautiful?_ Susie, you look like a monster!” She's struggling even more now, but you know her bonds won't break. 

"Well, I guess everyone’s a critic, aren't they? Coming from the creature in a costume of me, you’ll forgive me if your insult doesn’t bite to deep.”

You can see all the ink rushing to her head, the poor thing. Her awful impersonation aside, it’s flattering, in a way, that she’d dress up like you. Perhaps you’ll ignore her insult and send her to the inky sea quick and painless.

“My dear, I hope you didn’t expect to make it to heaven with plastic wings." You shake your head with a pitying smile. "No, this disguise won’t get you past the pearly gates. But, it’s always so nice to meet a fan, so I’ll help you through the door.” You slowly pull out a knife, and you can see the fear creep into her eyes.

"Susie, wait- dont-" She pleads, but you hold her still with a hand in her hair. Running the blade across her cheek, you draw forth a satisfying hiss of pain.

“Of course, even with the help of an angel we both know... you... won’t...” You pull the knife away and let her go, staring at the scratch.  _That's... not right. It can’t be. There’s just no way._  You run a finger across the mark just to be sure, bringing it to your lips to taste.

It’s been a long time since you’ve seen ink so suspiciously red.

“I suppose it’s my lucky day after all," you say, meeting her eyes once again. "Your innards are quite the bounty, it seems.” You bring the knife to bear with a grin.

She only scowls at you. How disappointing; you always did love to see the fear in their eyes. “You’ll regret this, Susie. This time, I won’t leave any of you left.”

You barely even care to hear what she’s saying. Probably something about begging for her life. “If you happen to come back, my dear knock-off,  _do_  stop in again. I could always use fresh bodies.”

She finally stops her struggling once you bury the knife in her chest.


	17. an unholy proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Alice chapter!

It's almost quiet in the dim halls of Joey Drew Studios, save for the clack of your mary-janes on the rotting floorboards. It's a rare blessing- one you're happy to take advantage of. You're going to have enough trouble as it is tonight, you'd rather not have to deal with any saboteurs.

As you walk, you rub the spots on your hands that the man in the mask marked. Sure, there might not be any scars- Susie would throw a hissy fit if there were- but the twinge is still there. You prefer your stigmata being just for show.

Speaking of the masked man, you unfortunately find yourself at his door. Unpleasant as it may be, even as a angel you aren’t quite qualified for the job at hand. So, when you knock on the priest's door, you prepare for the worst.

No response.

You knock again, louder this time. Still no response. You pound on the door even harder. “I know you’re in there!" You shout through the thin wood, "Get the lead out, I need to talk!” You get ready to bust it off its hinges, but finally, you hear the latch unlock. The door slowly cracks open, and standing in the door way is that twig, Sammy Lawrence himself.

“Ms Campbell, I hope you’re not here for a conjugal visit, because...” he trails  off, seeming confused as he scans a solid foot above you. Then, his mask happens to drift down more your way. “Oh.. it’s just you. Do you have _any_ idea what time it is? Or are you just that desperate to go back up on the cross?”

You cross your arms. “Not unless you want another quick shave from the missus! Should I take a seat while you throw out more thinly veiled threats, or do you wanna jump right into the sarcasm?”

“Ugh. Go away, you little pest.” He snaps, beginning to close the door. You jam your foot in the space, stopping it.

“Listen, I don’t wanna be here anymore than you do, but I need your help!”

He continues to try to slam the door on your foot, but when you don’t relent, he finally gives up. “And what could you possibly want from me? _And_ , while we’re on the the subject, why on Earth would I help you _or_ that godless floozy attached to your hip?”

You push the door open and walk past him, into the room proper, ignoring whatever seething gaze he's got locked on you underneath that cardboard. “Well, aren’t you a man of the cloth? Shouldn’t you be chomping at the bit to get in the good graces of a genuine lil' Angel?” You give him a sweet smile and an innocent little pose. He just takes a seat opposite you, completely ignoring your heavenly charm.

“What use does the Shepard have for the blessing of the black sheep? I believe I’ll be fine _without_ your ‘good graces’.”

With a huff, you put your hands on your hips and tap your foot impatiently. Talking to this guy is like pulling teeth. “Will ya at least hear out what I want?”

“You’re not going to leave me be until I do, are you?”

“Nope!”

He just sighs. “Go ahead then, ask what ever incepid favor it is you’ve come to bother me with.”

“Well, you’re a priest right? Or you were once, back before?”

He hesitates before nodding his head. “Something of the sort, yes. If you’re hoping to confess your sins , then-"

“Well,” you continue, cutting him off, “You see, if you’re already ordained by god, I was wondering if you could do me and mine the eensey weensey little favor of, well, how do I put this..." You clap your hands together with a simpering smile. "... Making us be married!”

He looks at you silently through his mask for a few tense moments, and you’re left to wonder if he’s thinking it over. That illusion is quickly broken when he breaks into a fit of laughter. “Oh, were you not joking? I see the rumors of your idiocy weren't exaggerated." He shakes his head. "You _really_ expect me to officiate your.... disgusting union with that monster? Even if I was still a man of the topside’s god... absolutely not.”

"...She's not a monster," you pout quietly.

Ignoring you, he dusts himself off and stands up out of his chair. “Now, I suggest you leave, before things have to get... _unpleasant.”_

Well, you tried doing this the nice way, but you suppose you have no choice now. You’re sure the J-man up above will understand. You grab Sammy by the strap of his suspenders, and pull him close. “Now you listen here choir boy, Alice ain’t _asking_ you anymore. After what you did to my favorite- and _only_ , mind you- pair of gloves, I have half a mind to draw and quarter you right here in your living room. So why don’t you be a good boy, call together your little congregation, get your little, stupid book, and do what Alice told you to do.” This guy just makes you so mad he’s got you speaking in third person.

“Oh deary me," Sammy scoffs. You can practically feel his eyes roll. "I’m absolutely _quaking_ in my boots. What ever will I do!" He grabs your hand and tries to wrench it off, but you get the feeling he’s a bit surprised when he can’t break your grip. “How on Earth are you...”

You give him a devilish smirk. “So maybe I let Susie be the hero every now and again. Maybe I play the damsel from time to time. But, Sammy...” You lift him just slightly, just enough to spook him. Thank _God_ for cartoon physics. “I’m just looking for a reason to get a crack at sending you back into the ink in pieces. So why don’t you do me that eensy little favor?”

He grabs at his suspenders, clearly shaken. “Heh, well, perhaps I might have been to hasty. I’ll uh... see what I can do.”

Satisfied, you let him go and give him a big grin. “Now was that so hard? All you had to do was give me a big thumbs up and I could’ve been on my marry way! I’ll have the wedding plans sent your way. Oh, I’m just so excited!” After dusting yourself off you happily head to the door, a skip in your step. When you reach it, you look back at him, still frozen in place. “...Oh, and if you mess it up or try any funny business, well...”

You draw a line across your neck.

"... I'll keep that in mind."


	18. take my name

You throw the switch, and the creature screams its last as electricity seizes up in its putrid body. A few moments latter, the weak ink falls slack, melting away. The only thing left behind is a clump of the purer kind, stuck to a single spike. Is this contraption necessary? No, not at all. Infact, it's a huge waste of time preparing these butchers for the rack, time that could better be spent elsewhere in pursuit of your goals.

But where’s the fun in that? Can’t a girl cut loose every now and again and treat herself? Why, you’ve got some plans for a prototype: daisy chain a couple of these together, and play their screams like a choir... it’s been so _long_ since you’ve had a proper instrument at your disposal.

Smiling at the thought, you carefully retrieve the lump with a pair of tweezers. It’s of no use to you as is; absorbing it now would be a waste. With the lack of Borises recently, you have to work with what you can find. All in due time Alice, all in due-

“Heya! Whatcha got there?”

You jump at the sudden voice, dropping your prize in the process. It splatters on the floor and sinks into the cracks. Well, if it was a waste of time before... You grit your teeth. “How many times do I have to tell you to not bother me while I’m working? Look what you’ve done! Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is to acquire ink like that?”

Alice looks down sheepishly, hands behind her back. "Oh, um..."

“I ought to take a donation from _you_ in its stead.” It's an empty threat. It’s a penny down the drain at most, and if there’s anything you know for sure, it’s that there is no shortage of those little monsters. You sigh and set your tools aside. “Now what do you want? Or did you come up here just to sabotage me?”

She kicks her foot against the tile floor and continues to not look at you. “I’m sorry... I just wanted to bring you some grub. You’ve been up here for a while...”

You cross your arms and give her a glare. “You interrupted me just to deliver another bucket of that _swill?”_

She must be doing this on purpose. Alice finally looks back up to you with the most sincere expression and extends a can. The lid is already bent back. “Yes, I _really_ think you should have a bowl.”

Ugh, like you would let that sludge have the privilege of touching your lips. “As much as I’d love to humor you with another tea party, I would actually _hate_ to do that, and I’m not eating this garbage.” You turn away from her to face your blueprints. “Go bother one of the lost if you’re so keen on feeding someone that muck. I need to work if I’m going to make up what you cost me.” You spread out the sheet and wait for the creaking of the door. Instead, you get a can slammed down on your desk. A little bit of the soup escapes, staining your blueprint. Groaning, you put a hand to your head. “Oh for God's sake Alice, _must_ you act like a child? If I let you pour a bowl will you stop with this nonsense?”

“Yes,” she says, matter-of-factly.

You give her a defeated sigh. “Alright. Fine.” You rest your head in your hand as she slowly fills a bowl with the chunky, rancid soup. Even the color of it makes you sick to your stomach. Bacon shouldn’t be pale white. She finishes pouring it and sets the can aside, then pushes the bowl towards you. It’s strange, but you can't help noticing that her hand seems to be shaking. You grimace at her offering. “... Do I _really_ need to eat this? Can’t I just pour it into a hole and say I did?”

She doesn’t say anything, just hands you a spoon. The things you let this girl _do_ to you. With another sigh you dip the spoon in, trying your best to fight back bile as it offers way more resistance than anything calling itself soup ever should. When you pull it back up, though, there’s something odd on it. You pick it up by your free hand.

“What in the world...?” Turning it around in your fingers, you realize it's some kind of ring, made out of bent scrap metal.

“Well...? What do you say...?” Comes Alice's voice beside you. 

_What do you say?_

“It’s certainly a piece of metal you put in what was already a disgusting bowl of slop. Did you expect me to eat this?” Her already nervous expression falls considerably. You set the ring down and push the bowl aside. “I don’t know what kind of insipid game you’re playing, but I’m done with it.”

“W-what? No it’s not... Su...er... Alice. Alice, I’m..."

There she goes again stuttering. “Spit it out or leave me alone. Preferably the latter.”

She shakes her head and clears her throat. “Alice, I... I got you that ring because...” She picks up the ring now, and slowly kneels beside you.

“So that you could ruin my evening? Because that’s all you’ve accomplished this far.”

Your counterpart just sighs. “... _just as dense as ever I see_...” She mumbles under her breath. “No, Alice, dear. I’m askin' you to... well, I always thought about it, but- I think I’m tired of being Alice Angel. I think I want to be Alice Campbell!”

You’re not following. “What are you _talking_ about? Why would you want to be anything else?”

“For Pete’s sake I’m askin' you to marry me!" Alice shouts in frustration, throwing her arms out. "I’m down on one knee takin' your last name, what more can I do to spell it out? Do I gotta call down the Big Man to smack you with a revelation?”

Oh. You see how it is now. You thought she of all people would be less cruel than to play such an awful prank. “You know, jokes like these are better left to the devil and his uncouth ilk. It’s not becoming of Angels.”

She gets up off the floor with a pout, crossing her arms. For a joke, her acting is  _very_ good. “I mean it! What kinda certified cherub would I be if I made a mockery of holy matrimony?! I even got Sammy on board to do the officiating stuff!" 

You snort at that. She _has_ to be playing with you now. “Right, Sammy just agreed to play along with your little farce cause he just loves us to bits, I assume. And I bet the ink demon's the flower girl as well?”

Alice puts her hands on her hips and huffs. “No, of course not! That’d be ridiculous. Sammy just... felt a little bad for hangin' me out to dry is all! Alice, I’m serious about this.”  
  
You stare at the ring in her hand. Did she really want this? She shouldn't. This has all got to be some kind of silly game, or make believe. To marry someone, some _thing_ like you would be the stupidest idea you could ever think of. And yet, that look in her eyes... “Are you... is this real? This isn’t just some kind of inane cartoon skit?”

She shakes her head. “It’s as real as you or... well, you.”

Idly, you look down at your ring finger. Maybe it would be nice to put something on it... “When you asked Sammy, was he... 'happy' about the idea?”

“Oh, Heavens no," Alice laughs, "I had to threaten you'd come in there and rip him apart just to get him to stop gaggin' at the idea.”

You snort. "Classic Sammy. This is going to be a complete disaster, you know. But..." You turn a little to face her, resting your elbows on your knees. "I agree to it."

“Is that really how you’re gonna say it?” The angel pouts, tilting her head.

You sigh again, but this time with a clear smile on half of your face. The things she makes you do. You're absolutely sure this will end in total disaster, but you never could say no to Alice, could you? “Yes, I will marry you. But forget about that 'Ms. Campbell' name, or else I may just change my mind.”

With a giggle, she runs up to you and gives you perhaps the biggest hug you’ve ever had. You swear you hear something pop as she buries her head into your neck. _“Deal!_ Oh my word... I can’t believe it’s actually happening! Just you wait till our Honeymoon!”

You feel yourself blush as she presses a kiss to your cheek.

 _Honeymoon, huh..._ Just _what_ did you get yourself into?


	19. best left forgotten

“Why are we looking for that jerk again?”

You _do_ wish your cherub could keep a thought in her head for more than a few moments so she wouldn’t have to badger you with questions; It’s a song and dance that grew tiresome day one. 

“It isn’t like Sammy to stay out of the spotlight for long,” you say, navigating the winding, ink-stained halls of the studio, “and I haven’t seen hide or hair of his little cult for quite some time. Were we in any other world I would count my blessings, but it’s not often that a creature of habit changes them. Something’s wrong.” You look down to the angel by your side. “Regardless, don’t you still need him for your farcical ceremony?”

She huffs and puts her hands on her hips in that little pout you’ve gotten more than used to seeing by now. “I think you mean _Our_ farcical ceremony... whatever farcical means. But... Hmm. I guess you’re right, he does like to make a point of botherin’ us on the daily, huh?”

You nod your head with a frown. “Precisely.”

She looks ahead sternly. “Well he better not have bit it before I got to read my vows! If he thinks he can upstage my wedding with a funeral...”

You just dismiss whatever she’s saying. A wrench in this game of hers is the least of your concerns; Sammy is not a man of subtlety or subterfuge. If he’s hiding away it must be dire cause, whether it be a terrible scheme or a terrible threat. You feel Alice’s hand gently grasp yours, as if she could sense your growing nerves. Keeping her close, you push open the door of his little sanctum, expecting a less than friendly welcome. It’s about time for one of his empty sermons after all, and the pews should be lined with those wretched fools.

But, you quickly notice, they aren’t. Not a soul- or soulless- in the room. It’s as barren as any other.

“What on Earth...” You murmur, watching Alice peek under a couple of the benches before giving you a little shrug.

“I thought they might be hidin’ from you, but there’s not a drop of ink outta place.”

Now this is becoming worrisome. Sammy abandoning his God-given mission of making your life incrementally more irritating is one thing, but him shirking his turn on the catwalk? _That’s_ unheard of. Something definitely isn’t right.

“This isn’t good, is it Alice?” You hear your angel ask, her hand cautiously wrapping around your waist.

With a frown you look at the stairwell skyward, the door still ajar. A door that is usually locked up tight. “No, Alice, I don’t believe it is.”

As you two rapidly ascend the long-rotten flights of stairs, there’s a crackle from the ceiling, and a broadcast is played over the intercoms.

 _“Arise, Ink Demon!”_ A familiar voice calls out. _“Claim this Sacrifice!”_ You slow your hurried ascent, causing Alice to bump into you. There’s the sound of heavy footsteps, the thumps of a struggle, and you strain to hear more. _Sammy, what are you doing..._

As you approach the room with the intercom booth, you peek around a corner. Ink crawling up the walls, or at least the tail end of the phenomenon. The demon was here, you realize with a slight pang of worry, just moments ago. Gone further into the studio like a wolf on the hunt. _But for what?_

Once you’re sure it’s safe and the demon is long gone, you guide your counterpart over to the chaotic scene the demon has left behind. Ever the curious one, Alice picks up a length of rope loosely surrounding one of the support beams.

“Wow, looks like he didn’t spring for the good stuff,” she mused, turning it around in her hands and pulling it taut. “I’m pretty sure a limp noodle could tear through these ropes… But the real question is, who was the poor sap he tied up?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, dear.” Whatever drew the demon’s ire, it left nothing behind but the ropes. No sign of that _Samuel_ either…

“You don’t think, maybe another Alice…?” She presses herself against your side, a shudder going down her spine.

You’re quick to dismiss that- no, Sammy would never sacrifice an angel without an audience. This was something quite different. If it weren’t for the lack of ink, you’d think his plan, whatever it was, went off without a hitch. Something isn’t right here.

There’s a slight crack in the door nearby that catches your attention, and as you open it to investigate, your suspicions are confirmed. A large, bubbling puddle of ink lays on the floor, and floating in it, the grim grinning mask you’ve come to hate.

Alice follows behind, and before you can stop her, picks it up. “Huh… doesn’t he usually come back with this on?”

Something inside tells you he isn’t coming back from this one- at least, not without consequence. Well, good riddance. You suppose the demon finally got tired of the prophet’s shenanigans.

You hear Alice sigh, suddenly, tossing the mask back into the ink. “Aw, but now who’s gonna officiate our wedding? I _guess_ I can bless someone with the right to matrimonying if the big man signs off on it, but that feels kinda like cheating...”

“God forbid,” you snort, eyes trailing over to the stains on the wall, falling on one of the punch-in boxes firmly fastened into the wood. There’s a single, fresh punch- but these things haven’t been in use for years. So who…?

You read, brow furrowed, the faded name on the slip- a name that shakes you to your core. As if a gate was opened it all comes flooding back, memories that aren’t yours, all a swirl of colors, poor through a hole in your thoughts that isn’t big enough to contain them. Rage, despair, love, betrayal. It all fills your mind in an incomprehensible torrent of emotions. You clutch your head and fall to you knees, the pain of it all too much for you to stand. Alice rushes to your side, but whatever she is saying falls on deaf ears.

You remember... _you remember the sensation of drowning. A businessman's proposal. The betrayal of a dear friend. A cold, wooden box._

“Su- Alice-! Alice?”

Again you look up at the ticket, your head clearing, confusion replaced with rage. You know now. You don’t know how you know, you don’t know who’s memories those where, but you know _now._ Gritting your teeth you grab at the hand on your shoulder.

“Alice, are you alright?” Your angel asks, clearly distressed, “What happened? Was it that box...?”

You shake your head and rise to you feet, inky, matted hair falling out of place and into your face. “I’m quite alright. Quite alright indeed.” You grab the ticket, ripping it out of the box, and in your anger the whole thing tears off the wall and cracks open on the hardwood floor. Alice jumps at the sound, looking up at you in confusion. “I’m afraid you’ll have to postpone the wedding, dear. It would seem an old... friend has come to visit.”

Instantly, your angelic counterpart claps her hands together in glee. “Golly! I get to meet your friends? I didn’t think you had any- _oh,_ we should definitely invite them! ...But, maybe we should clear out all the bodies? It’s not the most welcoming sight…”

With a slight, empty smile, you crumple up the ticket and drop it in the ink. “Oh, don't worry there is _so_ much to prepare... and so little time. Come along, darling. We have work to do.”

She begins to follow you out, but as your back is turned you can hear her unfurling the punch card. “Henry, eh? It’ll be refreshing to meet a gentleman who isn’t a complete scumbag for once!”  



	20. Hold on to your Heart

She takes you by the hands, gently, wet dripping fingers curling around your gloves to pull you close. Her dark, corrupt ink runs cold, yet somehow, it never fails to warm you. It’s not a rare gesture, not as it once was, but it’s one you still treasure all the same.

“Alice, dear. We’ve shared each other’s company for quite some time now, haven’t we?” Her voice is soft, thoughtful. She doesn't look at you, her head is tilted to the left and focused on the ground.

You'd say you’ve done a _lot_ more than just share each other’s company, but you won’t get stuck on technicality.  “Exactly one year, 2 months and 6 days!”

Susie just chuckles and shakes her head. “How you can be so sure of time's flow down here is beyond me. But the point stands.” Then, she sighs. “So.... I’ve been... _considering_ something. Something quite heavy, in fact.” She rubs her thumb over the top of your hand, a nervous tick if you’ve ever seen one. She’s so rarely _ever_ nervous, and when she is, it’s a cause for worry.

“What’s been bothering you?” You ask, trying to downplay your own anxiety.

She goes silent for a moment. When she speaks again, it’s with a more serious tone, her eye finally meeting yours and not breaking contact. “I believe it’s time you saw the truth. I have come to... to trust you. And I believe you can be trusted with my- with _our_ great work.”

Oh, is _that_ it? You almost sigh in relief.  

“Well I should hope so! No secrets between angels, that’s the way of the good book!” You don’t think that’s ever a code of honor that the Good Book ever expressed, but you’ve come to realize your counterpart of the same name seems to just assume your spouts of nonsense are scripturally sound. Quite shocking that your dear Susie wasn’t much of Church goer.

“Of course,” she smiles, though you can't tell if its a particularly happy one. “Now, I’ve spent many nights pondering how to explain the... _intricacies_ of my design. But, I believe it’s better to merely show you. You’ll be the first to lay eyes on this procedure, so mum's the word.”

Who the heck would you even tell about this whatever? _Sammy?_ You hate that guy, thinks just because he works out he’s holier-than-thou. Well, you don’t get much holier than an angel bub, you can tell him that for free!

While you were contemplating how deep your ire for the masked man runs, you hardly notice Susie leading you along to a heavy metal door. “I will warn you,” you hear her say, “This may venture into the territory of... fairly graphic.”

You assure her you’ll be fine. You’ve seen your fair share of graphic- some of those old toons can get pretty rough. When she opens the door, you’re pleasantly surprised by what you see.

“Boris!” You cry, removing your hands from Susie’s to clasp them together. “I haven’t seen you in so _long_! Are you and Alice friends now?”

Boris is slouched over in a wooden chair in the far corner of the dark, slightly dreary room. At the noise he lifts his head from where it’s drooped over, and his tired eyes shoot open wide when they fall on you. He begins shaking, hard enough that the wood vibrates along with him. He must be excited to see you!

“Aw, I missed you too boy! Come give me a hug!” You hold open your arms, but he doesn’t run to fill them.

You feel Susie behind you, pressing against your arm. “You know this creature then?”

Happily, you nod your head. “Yeah, he’s one of my closest pals! Me and him play board games together all the time!” Turning back to your friend, you tilt your head. “Come on Boris, you’ve never turned down a hug before.”

His shaking gets more vigorous, but for some reason he still won’t leave his chair. You feel Susie put a hand on your shoulder. “Alice, I’m afraid Boris won’t be leaving his seat. This is quite fortunate, though, that you were close. It’ll help drive this demonstration home, I believe.”

You don’t understand. Why can’t he leave his seat? Why is there a bunch of equipment laying around? “What’s going on?” You ask, finally, turning to look up at her.

You watch as she picks up a needle, and, suddenly, you get it. “Oh no, is Boris _sick?”_ You gasp, hand to your lips. “Golly, I didn’t know-  is there anything you can do? You’re a doctor, aren't you?”

Boris is glaring, well, _needles_ at the needle. You would be too if you were on the other end, you _hate_ those pointy things!

Susie shakes her head as she moves over to him. Something about this doesn’t feel right… “No, Alice, I’m no doctor. I never was. But you’re right, your friend is _very_ sick.” There’s a stark pause before she sticks the needle in his arm, and his struggling slowly stops. You watch, still standing in the doorway, as his head slumps forward. “They’re all sick, you see. Monsters now, but once they were people, _workers,_  now trapped in dripping prisons of a body.” Susie’s voice is sweet and gentle as she grabs a circular saw. “They don’t even know how much they are suffering, stranded in this inky sea. The self is the first thing it tears away.”

The saw starts revving up, and you feel a pit in your stomach. “They are not but disgusting shells now, unfit to walk the halls of our domain. But I’m a merciful angel, and I only ask a small price for their trip to Heaven.” The saw connects with ink, and you find yourself rushing to save him.

“No, stop-!” You shout, nearly tripping in your excitement. “You’re hurting him!” But before you can stop her you feel the back of a hand collide with your face, and you fall to the ground, holding your cheek. Tears well up when you lock eyes with her, when you see the horrified expression on her face.

Susie’s breath is harsh as she stares at you, silently, but it doesn’t last long. “You would ask this creature to _suffer?_ You _will_ understand, Alice. I’ll show you.” She turns back to the body, burrowing the saw into Boris's chest. You flinch as ink splatters from the wound and onto your face- wet, thick, and ice cold. It’s not long before she retracts the tool, reaching into the cavity she’s carved. When she pulls out her hand, a white, beating heart is in her grip.

“ _This_ is the only price I ask. A heart weighed against freedom, an end to eternal suffering.” She kneels down, and with her free hand cups your cheek where she slapped you. “It’s an ocean of screams, Alice, a Black Sea devoid of any other sensation. It’s a _mercy_ I’m showing them, and this-” She holds the organ in front of your face. You want to look away, but she doesn’t let you. “-Is the key to ending it all. The man who created us yet draws breath, Alice. He has abandoned his children to this Hell. And when I’m finally ready, _his_ will be the last heart I rip from its cage.”

The heart melts away in her hand, and for a moment, you think you see her solidify, feel her skin become just a bit more warm. She presses the newly freed palm against your other cheek now, and the blood of what was once Boris drips down your jaw. Your mind is reeling from it all- you don’t know what to say, what to think.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” she murmurs, all her confidence from earlier dripping away. “You know why I have to do this, don't you?”

You stare over at the body, a realization creeping into your brain. “Is that.... is that what you were going to do to me, when you found me?” You ask, quietly, looking back at her.

Susie's single eye is tinged with guilt. “I… Yes. But I realized I couldn't bring myself to let you _die_ , or harm a hair on your head, even if it was to save to you. ...I hope you can forgive my weakness.”

Then she kisses you, softly, and you don’t fight it. You don’t do anything, just keep staring at the corpse of your friend, the taste of his blood tainting your lips.


	21. i don't want to live my life again

“I just don’t get it, why she would shed a tear over that... _thing_.” You stop a moment to think about what you’ve said. “No offence, of course.”

The Boris that you’ve caught tonight  struggles against his bonds, a panicked look in his pie-cut eyes. Just the same as always. With a sigh, you take up the needle. Could just _once_ your service receive a thanks? No, only thrashing and the screech of metal as they rocked in place, desperate to find their freedom. “Please, must you _all_ be so dramatic? There’s no sense fighting back, you know.” You set the needle in his arm, and his thrashing finally slows to a halt. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor. Surely you must understand the gift I offer?”

He stares at you with dull eyes, just like the rest. You grimace at him and then shake your head.  “Feh, of course not. There isn’t a single brain cell between the lot of you. Lucky for you all that’s not the organ I require.” After looking over your stash of tools, you pick up a scalpel and hold it over his chest. “You should’ve seen the way she looked at me... like I was a _monster_. I suppose in many ways I am, but no more than she is. Isn’t that the point?”

 You slide the knife downward with a measured stroke, like a painter at her pallet. Ink bleeds slowly from the wound and stains the Boris’s overalls. With a deep, dramatic sigh, you pause. “She didn’t even kiss me back, after I freed her friend...” That was the part that hurt the most- though you wouldn’t dare admit it, you were only just starting to get used to the angel’s over-enthusiastic kisses. And now... Trying not to linger, you peel back the layers of inky skin, exposing the bone beneath. The Boris’s head lazily looks up at you, tongue lolling from his mouth. The poor thing. Another lost soul in this dripping prison.

 “Maybe she was just cross it was a kindness I never extended to her?” You ponder aloud, reaching for your saw. “I wanted to, I swear...” Chips of bone fly hither and yon as your machine works its way through the creature’s ribs. “... but I just couldn’t. She’s perfect, you know, and she had to be mine.” You chuckle a bit, letting the saw slip ever so slightly. It nicks a piece of the creatures flesh, leaving an oozing gash. Even when she’s not here Alice managed to make you slip up. “Oh, listen to me, Boris, talking like a schoolgirl in love. ...And love makes us do terrible things, does it not?”

 You pull out the large sections of bone, making clear the path to the white, pulsating heart. Staring at it, you sigh deeply once more. And to think this used to be so _fun._

 “No... I knew that look. Try as I might to believe, I know it wasn’t jealousy. It was loss.” Taking up the knife yet again, you carefully begin to free the heart from its arteries. As you hold it in your hand, you look down at the Boris, whose life had fled only moments ago. His carcass splayed open, empty, and free. “... Love makes us do terrible things, does it not?” You mutter again, an awful thought forming in your ink-addled brain.

 You stare at the heart, still warm in your hand, still beating as if in its cage.  
Yes, the body may be empty, but the creature still lives.

 Sadly, you know what you must do.

 Setting the heart aside for later you leave for the back room, quickly dragging in another, older corpse. You push him upon your workbench, chest empty, His eyes the X’s of death. In his pocket, a drawing of an angel and her canine companion. You place a hand on his chest and silently apologize. Apologize that you must bring him back to this world of pigment and pain. Then, silent and full of determination, you take up your tools.

 Creating life is commonplace in these fallow halls; the machines of awful old men and even older gods churn out abominations ‘round the clock. But to bring back what has already fled.. That is a different beast. One that will require _far_ more than a single cadaver. Luckily for you, you are in no short supply of corpses to butcher.

 

* * *

 

You lean in the door frame, silently observing your angel. She hasn’t noticed you yet, hunched over the table like she is. It’s obvious, even from here, the stain of inky tears that once ran down her cheeks. She’s still holding where you struck her, and you wince at the realization. You are no stranger to first doing harm, but with her... for once you regret it.

 Hopefully your dark work will purchase her forgiveness.

 “Alice.” She jumps at your voice, but doesn’t turn to face you. Guilt tugs at your insides as you walk forward, hands behind your back. “I... have done something; something I believe you should see.”

 Suddenly she glares up at you, obviously shocked and furious. “Don’t you think you’ve done _enough_ today? Can’t you just leave me be? I don’t wanna see anymore of your secrets, Susie.” The use of that name hits you like, ironically, a slap to the face. But you understand her indignation, perhaps even deserve it, and you can’t blame her for spitting in your eye.

 You kneel down to her level, and she looks away again. “Alice, please...” Cupping her cheek in your hand, you turn her head to look at you once more. She flinches at the touch, and you wish it was from the chill of your dead ink. “I assure you this will set things right.”

 Alice only sighs, eyes cast down, and brushes your hand away. A trail of ink from your dripping flesh hangs between you for just a moment, before the tension gives out and it drips to the floor. “Okay. Fine. Go ahead, take me to whatever horrible hobby you’ve gotten into now.”

 You try to smile and offer her your hand, but she doesn’t take it. She just stands up. That little _brat-_  no...  _no_ , you remind yourself, _Alice_. You hurt her feelings, that’s why you’re fixing it.

 God, you hope you can fix it.

 

* * *

  
  
 You follow behind Susie as she leads you back to her den of what you are now pretty sure is evil. You’re not sure why you’re humoring her again; last time it led you to watching some of the most malicious malpractice your two innocent eyes ever had to see.

 Poor Boris... You get that living in this place all alone can be a hard pill to swallow, and the demon can pack a wallop a lot worse than what the doctor prescribed, but... it’s just so _cruel_ . Finally, you look up at the angel in front of you, her head dipped downward. The Good Book did say _some_ angels are a bit twisted, but the way she carried on- like she was enjoying the whole thing-! and was _shocked_ you were anything but smiles... it sends a chill up your spine.

  _What’s this place done to you, Susie…?_ You wonder, sniffling slightly. _You used to be sweet as a sugar plum._

 She pauses at one last door, the door to her macabre theater, and turns to you with an expression tinged with remorse. “Alice. I have done many terrible things, I’ll admit that much. In the service of protecting us, in keeping myself together. Tonight, I fear I might have set a new low. But you _have_ to understand, I did it for you.”

  _Keeping herself together?_ Now that she mentioned it, she does look a little... _runnier_ than normal. You swallow the lump in your throat and step towards her. “Oh Alice... I don’t wanna see what you’ve done. If- If this is all just to keep you truckin’, if they gotta... go the way of the dodo to keep you together...” Reaching forward, you squeeze her hand. It’s cold and wet, but you don’t let go. “Is this really the only way?”

 Sadly, she nods her head. Her eye is focused on your hand, and you can almost feel her trembling. “All of us, from the searchers, all the way up to the demon himself, live by these rules. Some are too ignorant to follow it, and _some_ are perfect enough that the creep is slow; it takes decades before the ink begins to drip. But each and everyone of us is falling apart. I’ve been there Alice, where they all go, where every inky creature falls. When you lose your body, you return to the well. When you lose your mind, you don’t come back.”

Finally she turns to look at you sternly. “They hardly have minds to begin with, you know. They can’t even speak. If a butcher, or even some inconsequential searcher finds them first, then screams will be all that await them. I’m the only one that frees them, Alice. I free them by the laws of this place.”

 You look up at her with a frown. “But don’t all Dogs go to Heaven?”

 “ _Heaven_ isn’t what waits for things like us. We weren’t made to ascend. But, maybe...” She closes her eye, for just a moment, and takes a deep breath. “But that’s not what I want to show you.”

 “It’s not?” You mean you got all worked up about this existential hootenanny for no reason?

 “No... it’s something _far_ worse. I understand that I hurt you, Alice. I tried to force revelation upon you, but you are so naive, so... _ignorant_ of the dark corners. Of course you would turn in fear.” Finally letting you go, she throws open the door. “So I did what only Angels dare. I brought him back.”

 Nothing could have prepared you for what she had hidden away.

 There, in the darkness, you see your old friend. A hulking, dripping mass now, body heaving with every raspy breath he took. Bones and pipe jut out at odd angles, his pants are torn and missing buttons, and his eyes... they’re just lengths of rope tied in a grim mask of death.

You look back at Susie in fear, but she only gestures you forward. Gulping, you approach the creature slowly, legs threatening to buckle underneath you. “H-hiya big guy, do you, uh, remember me? Your old pal Alice?”

 He doesn’t acknowledge you at first, instead looking over your head at Susie, who merely nods. Then, suddenly, he drops to one knee in front of you- a motion that shakes the floor- and extends a large, gloved hand. _Does he want to... shake?_ Cautiously you place your hand in his, and, surprisingly gentle for his massive frame, he lifts it up and down. Then he lowers his head to you, and you take the bait, scratching behind his ears. He seems to be happy about it. You, on the other hand, are not. The Boris you knew never let you pet him, and _definitely_ wouldn’t do tricks for you.

 No, of course this isn’t the Boris you knew. That’s not the Susie you knew. This isn’t the slice of heaven you knew.

 But… maybe, for now, that’s okay. You hope that’s okay.


	22. a gift from the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> its a few days late, but...

 You pace about the room, back and forth, over and over, anxiety gripping your frame like a vice. There was a quiet tune playing from the tinny speakers overhead, an old Alice number you played when you wanted to drown out your thoughts. Tonight, though, it didn't do much good.

 You’ve taken life before, of course- _many_ times in fact, and you’ve even dabbled in reanimating the soulless dead on occasion. The hulking brute of a Boris in your possession was proof enough of that. But this… This is something new. You’ve never brought new life into this fetid prison. It grows from a cadaver’s splayed open chest under a loose beam of sunlight, somehow making its way down into these depths, despite it all. This is your deepest sanctum, the one place even Alice cannot tread. This is the place that reminds you of the freedom you’re working for, tainted as it is now by what you’ve done.

 Finally, after much deliberation, you take up the knife as you have so many times and set it to use freeing the fruits of your labor. With it bundled close to your heart, you make your way upstairs to deliver your “gift”.

 As you climb the stairs back up to your shared Cloud Nine, you catch the soft glint of your metal band in the dim fluorescent light. It’s a silly thing wrapped about one inky finger, half consumed by the constant drip that characterizes your extremities. Alice insisted you both wear them, despite being little more than old iron bands from some long dead contraption. Still, the sight of it makes your dead heart swell every time. Though you’d never say as much out loud, (your lovely little angel would have a field day if you ever fessed up to being so soft,) it’s nice to be claimed. To be loved.

 It’s all you’ve ever really wanted.

* * *

 

 With an agitated huff you rap gently on the heavy door. You’ve looked high and low for her throughout your maze-like slice of hell, and this is the last place she could be. Why, of all days, did _this_ have to be the one she made herself so scarce? The package in your hands has weighed you down so in your search.

 There’s rustling behind the thick steel, and you quickly hide your delivery behind your back. You could just barge in, as you so often do, but for once you feel the need to not be so rude.

 Finally, the door cracks open, and a pair of perfect pie cut eyes peer out through the gap. Once she sees you, though, your angel sighs in relief. “Oh, hiya Alice! I was worried you might be one of those nasty butchers trying to give me the business again!”

 You smile slightly, gently, as much as your torn face can manage. “No such luck today I’m afraid, it’s only me.”

 Alice swings the door wide open with a flourish and a happy grin. Now that you can get a peek inside, you see your abomination of a Boris sitting at a table _much_ too small for him in the middle of the room. “Well _golly_ , it’s always a lucky day when I get to see that lovely mug! Come on in, me n’ Boris were playin’ a game of go fish, and we’d love to have a third!”

 She motions for you to come in, but you hold your ground, your package held tight behind your back. “Somethin’ the matter honey? ...Say, what’s that you’re hiding behind your back?” Alice frowns suddenly, biting her lip. “It’s... not one of your funny little crimes against God again, is it?”

 You wince at the accusation and cast your eye down. Maybe you shouldn’t have come here with this in tow- No, this was a terrible blunder. “I... yes. I’m afraid so.”

 She sighs, hands on hips, and it’s like a jab to the gut. “Alright, lay it on me then. No sense draggin’ it out. What dark deed did you get elbow deep into this time?”

 You _do_ suppose there has been a lot of ‘dark work’ being brought to light. Her annoyance with it, rather than reverence- or even _fear_ \- in its face irks you a little, you won’t lie. But you’ll file that away for later. Taking a deep breath and filling ravaged lungs with rancid air, you search for the right words. “Well, you see… We’ve been... _together_ for some time now, Alice… though, I suppose you could say we were always one. And in that time, you’ve been infuriating, detestable, insufferable, a never ending _nuisance_ on a day to day basis, and the greatest thorn in my side that I’ve ever had to so often pluck.”

 Alice frowns, leaning against the doorframe. “Gee... way to make a girl feel special.”

 You hold up your hand and continue. “ _But_ , despite the hell you have put me through...”

 Slowly, you pull the bouquet of flowers from behind your back, presenting their sickly black petals. Your fingers twitch nervously against the crumpled paper keeping them together. “I couldn't imagine a single day without your interference.”

 Alice gasps quietly, bringing a hand to her mouth. “Susie.... where did you...?”

 That _horrid_ name again. You knew she’d hate them. Drawing your hands back, you look away, almost ashamed. “I... grew them myself. I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me, I...”

 She moves forward to gently take them in her hands. After a moment of inspection she brings them to her nose and gives them a sniff. There’s a soft giggle. “They smell a lot like you, like paint thinner and ozone… Oh Susie, I love ‘em!”

 You feel another apology die in your throat, caught aback. “You do, really?”

 She sniffles, and, careful not to crush her gift, wraps her arms around you. “Of _course_ I do, ya big softy! What kind of gal doesn’t like to get flowers from her fiancé? Though you didn’t have to go through all this trouble for lil ol’ me...” You can feel a wet black tear rolling down your cheek as Alice pulls away with a smile so sweet it could melt even the Ink Demon’s heart. “... A nice little kiss would’ve done me just fine. May I?”

 You nod your head, for once at loss for words. Wiping the tear from your cheek with your thumb, you tip your head downwards for her to reach. Alice chuckles as she cups a soft glove to your dripping jaw.

 “D’aw, you’re so _cute_. Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too.”

 As you share a kiss- which you are sad to notice is being observed by your Frankenstein in the back- and her teeth, pointy as they are, prick your bottom lip, you are left with only one question…

_What's Valentines Day?_


	23. heavenly matters

A gush of ink splatters against your apron as you reach your arm deeper into the thick, black viscera before you. The cadaver shudders violently, a mimicry of the life it once held. You weave the thin thread between rib and sinew with a deft hand tempered by the decades. Amazingly, you’ve even managed to master the art of toning out the incessant babbling of your better half; no more punctured lungs or wasted hearts for you. Though, she does seem stirred up about some nonsense something _awful_ today.

“... I just think this is a very important issue we need to discuss!” Alice cries, finally, slapping her gloved hand onto the one part of the table that wasn't splattered with ink.

You sigh, reaching your arm deeper into the butcher’s husk until the cold, damp internals are up above the rim of your long glove. “Oh, sweetheart, _everything_ seems to be an important issue with you, doesn’t it? You’ll have to be more specific.”

The body quivers again as you wrap the thread between the dearly departed’s vertebra. Alice grimaces at the display, shaking off a bit of ink that's splattered onto her hand. “Gosh, I wish you wouldn’t do your dark work while I’m tryin’ to have a discussion with you, dear. It’s wildly upsetting!”

You smirk as you pull the line taut before plunging the needle back in elsewhere.

“Anyway, this time I mean it!” Alice continues, hands on her hips, “We gotta figure out who’s gonna wear the dress and who’s gonna wear the suit!”

With a sigh, you hold your head in your free hand. There's already a headache coming on. “Oh, _this_ again. We both wear dresses already, Alice, and they're perfectly good. I don’t see the point in a wardrobe change.”

Pouting heavily, she stamps her foot with all the force of a toddler. “The _point_ is, the big man won’t give us his blessin’ if we don’t follow the book to the letter- which he _wrote,_ by the way!”

“Oh, so you can read now?” You say, propping your head up in your hand. She huffs and turns away, and you snicker to yourself. “...Honestly dear, this whole wedding fiasco is becoming more trouble than it’s worth. I understand the desire to take the stage before an audience of inken degenerates, but this is all a bit ridiculous.”

She looks back at you over her shoulder, her arms crossed. “I’m sorry, but I ain’t no wedlock hussy! If you want a slice of heaven, you gotta put a ring on it, buster!”

You can only smile wickedly in response, tapping fingers lightly on the table. “Isn’t it a bit late for that? I _do_ believe you’ve already committed that particular sin, dear.”

Alice instantly flushes grey. “L-listen! I already asked the big man’s lil’ kid to let that one slide, so _I’m_ pure as a mornin’ glory!”

Eyebrows raised, you look back to your work, quite pleased with yourself. “That _‘one’?”_

You don’t hear the the usual huff and puff from your angel this time. “... Listen, Susie, I’m serious. Serious as psalms.” There's a sigh as she scuffs her mary-janes along the tile floor. “I just want everyone upstairs to know that I’m bringin’ a plus one when I come home. Heaven would be dimmer than a busted light bulb without you there; why, it wouldn’t be any kinda _paradise_ at all!”

Foolish girl. Didn't she realize? It would take more than a silly little marriage to let you past the Holy Gates, if there were any there at all. But, still, the look in her big black eyes is unflinching. You sigh as you lift the corpse up, tying the thin threads to hooks, and the hooks to suspended chains. With the crank of a lever, the desecrated cartoon lifts into the air, limbs stretched wide; a new little decoration to your humble abode. Alice grimaces at it. She never _was_ a fan of your ‘hobbies’.

“... Well,” you answer, finally, “You’re a fool if you think for a _moment_ I’d be the one in a suit. Could you imagine what my poor fans would think? No, that simply would _not_ do.”

You watch as Alice perks up instantly. “Oh, of course! It was honestly such a silly question.” After a moment she smiles, moving to your side. “So... you think I’d look good in one, darlin’?”

 _Ugh_. Rolling your eyes, you turn your back to her to hide the rush of ink to your cheeks and gather up your tools. “I couldn't care less about how you choose to dress yourself. ...But, yes, I think you’d look rather dapper.”

Alice hums happily at that, cheeks still laced with grey.

Looking away from her, you step back, tools in tow, to appreciate your handiwork. The Edgar’s legs are splayed, it’s guts hanging freely but not chaotically. Every sinew, every inch of pitch black meat is perfectly arranged.

“So,” Alice finally speaks up, tilting her head at the sight, “... What part of the _greater good_ is this thing for?”

You look down at her. “What? Oh, nothing, I just enjoy stringing them up sometimes. Makes the whole place seem livelier, don’t you think?”

The look on her face disagrees with you. _Oh well_ , there’s nothing for it you suppose- after all, what’s a spiders web without a couple of desiccated coffin stuffers?

Eventually she sighs, and follows you out of the room. “Well, I guess I won’t have to worry about makin’ him an invite at least.” 


	24. cut loose

“Why, aren’t  _ you _ a feisty one. Most of your kind just cower and hide... But  _ you _ , oh, you’re a fighter! You may well be the most  _ imperfect _ Boris I’ve ever seen. The lines are all wrong, and the attitude?  _ Please _ .” You run your knife down a sharpening block, taking no mind to the rattle of chains behind you. The ink creature whined and thrashed and caused so much ruckus you were near thankful they couldn't speak. 

“...I suppose I see a lot of myself in you," you continue, with a fond little smirk. "Another creature halfway made. Oh, but don’t go telling anyone I said that- it isn’t good for the image. I know how your kind loves to flap their gums.” Chuckling to yourself, the scraping of metal elicits a spark. Your prisoner continues to struggle against his bonds; fruitlessly, of course. It's a wonder how he's able to keep it up for this long.

“Oh settle down dear, I believe you’ll find the restraints more than a match for you. I know it isn’t quite  _ comfortable _ , but we can’t have you running away, now can we?” Laughing, you trace the knife down one of the misplaced sketch lines. Some of his ink smudges along with it.  _ How repugnant. _ “... It’s for your own good, after all. I wouldn’t want you to come to undue harm during the procedure.”

He spits in your face- thin black swill that runs down your cheek. Grimacing, you wipe it off with one inky thumb. “I guess you’re not so different from the others after all," you all but growl, doing your best to keep your voice steady. "I slave away trying to  _ help _ you creatures, and yet I remain unappreciated.”

You turn to your tools. “A bunch of ingrates-  _ Children _ hoarding their goodies to themselves, bringing all of us down. I offer freedom, and I receive spittle in return.”

Selecting your bonesaw, you turn to the Boris with a sickly grin that makes his eyes go wide. “Lucky for  _ you _ , I'm no longer in the business of offering a choice.”

Your footsteps echo off the rotten floor as you approach him, inching the saw closer to his chest. “Do you like it?" You ask dreamily, tilting the appliance to reflect his face, "It’s an interesting little gizmo, is it not? Though, I do fear overuse has dulled the blade quite a bit. Bone is an obnoxious material to cut, after all. Do you mind if I... test it out real quick?”

Slowly pressing the saw to his inky skin, you savor the moment before the tearing of meat. You  _ are _ truly a charitable soul... but a girl's gotta have a little fun too. There’s no harm in that, right? Okay, maybe there is, just a little.

The Boris tenses up as first blood is drawn, but doesn't make a noise. Doesn't even trash as you dig the blade in. But then you stop, disgusted by what you see.

This isn’t ink; it’s hardly even  _ slime _ .

You sigh, the moment lost. “Seems that your heart won’t be any good. Not in the sorry state you’re in. Such a shame... I suppose I’ll have to let you go. Let you  _ suffer _ . I can’t waste my tools on every coffin stuffer with  _ bile _ for ink.”

He lets out an exaggerated sigh of relief as you start to step away. The poor thing...  _ well _ . You did just claim to be charitable, right?

“... Of course," you begin, giving him the sweetest little smile, "I suppose I could use you for parts.”

You turn the saw back on and press it into his bicep. Pie cut eyes shoot wide as he struggles and spasms, rubber hose arms straining against metal restraints. It's not long before you feel the saw hit bone.

“Oh calm down, it’ll be over soon. Then we can start working on the-” You grunt, the blade grinding into the wood of the table as the arm hangs free in its restraint. “- _ Next _ one. See? was that so ba-”

Before you can finish, there's a sharp pain as the Boris's head collides with yours and your vision flashes. You barely even register being knocked to the floor.

“Son of a-!" Spitting ink, you hold a hand to your head. " _ You-! _ How  _ dare _ you!” You can feel thick ichor trickling down the perfect half of your face as you stand back to your feet. The Boris glares at you, his stump oozing slime.

“The saw not good enough for you?" You growl, flicking black droplets from your fingers. "Oh, I see, I  _ understand _ . It’s not  _ slow _ enough. I agree. You can’t savor it, with machines like that. It’s too quick, too  _ humane _ .”

Pulling your knife from your apron, you approach him slowly. As you speak your voice cracks, dripping with malice. “It’s not  _ personal _ , I get it. You’re a fan- you should be. You’re not ready to part with me just yet- you've only just found your angel. Well, my dear Boris, you’ve swayed my heart. I’ll take my time with you. If you change your mind, just say something, okay...?” You laugh, baring your teeth and your knife, and…

Before you can have your fun, you hear the clattering of steel cans; the sign of your makeshift alarm being triggered. Of all times, it  _ has _ to be when you’re trying to cut lose. You huff and drop the blade back into your apron. Before leaving, you turn to your sulking guest.

“I’ll be just one moment. Don’t go anywhere! And don’t  _ die _ quite yet, I’ll let you know when you earned it.” You give him a pat on the cheek, chuckling at the scowl he gives you, and walk past him out of your work station.

By the time you come back, he’s gone. A smudge of ink in one restraint, a sagging arm in the other, and a trail of putrid ink leading off down the hall.


	25. caged bird

There's a loud rumble as you turn the crank, and the fancy doohickey slurps up another clump of ink.

You’d think this would be easier than the pie of your eye, but these crotchety old contraptions are very picky about the kinda ink they gobble up. They turn up their nose at any of the loose ink that flows on by by the bucket full, only giving up the goods to the thicker stuff. Coming across the kind it takes is a hassle in a half, what with having to knock searcher heads for even a scrap half of the time. It’s so  _ unladylike. _

If Susie caught you roughhousing, well, you don’t even know  _ what _ she’d do. Probably something dramatic and dripping with thinly veiled maliciousness, like most of the things she does.

Finally, the machine gives you reason to stop thinking when it spits out a little lump that quickly expands and takes shape. It's… a lone button-up shirt. You pick it up and frown.

“ _ Hawaiian? _ I can’t wear this to my weddin', you dumb thing!” You give the box a good kick, and sigh. Well, at least dear sweet Susie might look pretty good in it... in a  _ trashy _ kind of way. Like you’d ever get her to wear it though. Instead, you fold it up and giggle to yourself. “Not in a million years...”

As you pack it away into your little messenger bag, you hear the splish splash of inky feet approaching. A surge of panic hits you, but with no ink going haywire, the chances it’s old scratch here to give you an ink-nap are pretty much nill. ...Still, there’s plenty of other ghouls with an axe to grind that you’d much prefer not use you as a whetstone, so you duck behind one of the many conveniently placed cutouts that fill this heck hole and wait for whatever monstrosity this way comes to come to somewhere else. 

Against your better judgement- which, you’ll admit, isn't too good to start with- you decide to chance a little peek down the hall and see if you’re jumping at shadows or if it’s the real deal that just  _ looks _ like shadows. So long as you lean nothing ever seems to see you in this joint, though you suppose a pair of eyes are few and far between as far as the nasties go. The footsteps get louder, closer, until finally...

You sigh in relief. “Aw Alice, you scared me half to death! Now I see why you hate it so much.” Coming out from around the cutout, you see your bride-to-be standing in what looks to you like textbook stunned silence. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your hair pulled back! Though, I didn’t take you for the rough and ready look! Gotta say, I dig it though.”

You give her a wink, but she continues to not say anything. She looks… strange, actually, now that you've got a good look at her. All hunched over, strange clothes, eye-  _ eyes _ wide… You tilt your head. “... How’d you cover up the whole eye mess though?”

More footsteps sound off as another figure rounds the corner- a familiar face is this run down old place. Another Boris, with a big metal contraption for an arm. You raise an eyebrow in surprise. “Oh, did you make a friend? Well who’s this fine young gentleman who avoided the chopping block?”

You extend a hand for him to shake, giving him a big smile. Your angel looks over at him with concern. “... It knows her.”

The Boris nods silently.

“Huh?" You quirk an eyebrow and tilt your head. "What’s wrong with your voice, hun? Are you feelin' al-“ your eyes widen as you have mere moments to process the axe-butt on a collision course with your noggin. After that, you just see stars.

 

* * *

 

With a groan, you rub your head as the world comes back into focus. You feel like you got hit by a lead piano! That Boris sure had one heck of an arm- you have no idea how Susie keeps catching them when they pack that much of a wallop. 

Speaking of being caught, it seems like  _ you’re _ in a cage of your own. You grab the bars of your makeshift prison and chance a peep at the perps who locked you up. The faker with a hair band halo seems to be tinkering with the arm of the brute that gave you your lumps. His lefty is thick metal and  _ quite _ bulky; you can understand why it put you an inch from under.

Honestly looking at the two of them, you’re embarrassed you mistook this Raggedy Ann for  _ your _ doll!

After a moment of observation you decide to make your consciousness known. If they had any intent on making paste out of you, you're  _ sure  _ you’d be a puddle by now. You lean against the small opening in the cage with a frown. “Why is it that everything with half a face has got a bone to pick with me in this joint? I get I wasn’t a popular addition to the ensemble, but  _ Jeez Louise _ .”

The two kidnapping crooks look over your way. Boris doesn't look too happy, but the knock-off angel smiles, which you can only assume means something sinister.

“Oh, you’re awake!" She breaths with relief, dusting off her inky black hands, "I thought my friend here mighta put you down for the count. You’ll have to forgive him- he gets a bit too rowdy sometimes. Ain’t that right, Tom?” She gives Boris a playful shove, to which he simply huffs and turns away.

“ _ A bit too rowdy?!"  _ You rub the sore on your head with agitation, disturbing your halo. "I feel like I got a bowlin' ball on my noggin from the drubbing he dished out!”

The lady frowns, sitting up a little in your chair. She has big, sad eyes, and you aren't really sure what to make of the expression they're giving you. “I’m really sorry about that… when you mentioned the 'eye mess', we figured you must’ve known the other  _ angel _ in these parts, and she’s a bit of a...  _ sore subject _ in our company.”

She pats the Boris, Tim you think it was, on his metal arm. You get the implication and frown.

“Well, I guess I can’t blame you for gettin' your knickers in a twist…" With a sigh, you put your head in your hand. Seems like your angel has been busy… You decide to change the subject. "So... whatcha plannin' on doin' with lil' ol' me?”

The Boris and bargain-bin Angel share a glance.

“We aren’t sure yet…" She answers, finally. " _ Susie _ up there wouldn’t take kindly to us lurking around, so we don’t want her finding out about this little encounter.” 

Huh... that’s a name drop you didn’t expect. You squint your eyes, because it's awfully suspicious. “Say, what’d you say your name is?”

“Alli-“ Timmy cuts her off with a hand on her shoulder, giving her a stern look. Or, at least, a sterner look. She huffs. “It’s Alice. At least that’s what the lost ones keep calling me. Hard to remember these days.”

You squint even harder, so close to just full on shutting your eyes that it’s hard to see much of anything. “...Well, 'Alice' the third, I promise I won’t speak a peep of you and your buddy skulkin' through the studio if ya let me go, Angels honor. Give me a good book an' I’ll put my hand to it!”

The angel looks nervously to her Boris again, but he shakes his head no. She sighs again, like that wasn't the answer she had wanted to hear. “Look… I’m sorry, Alice, but we can’t just let you go. If the other Angel found out about us, or  _ anyone _ out there, it’d put us in some pretty hot water. Not a lot of places left where the demon isn’t stomping about...” 

You furrow your brow, pressing hard against your bars. They seem pretty strong, but... “So you’re gonna just keep me locked up in here? I’m sorry missy, but I got a weddin' to attend and I will  _ not _ be leavin' my bride-to-be at the altar- I can tell you that for free!”

After giving you a hard look of confusion they face away from you, going back to whatever it is they were doing. The angel tips her head apologetically, with one last glance over her shoulder. “I suppose you’ll just have to reschedule.”

 

* * *

Some time passes as you sit in your little cage. You listen in on their conversations when you can- Mostly vague talks about strategy. You suppose they don’t want to get into details while their prisoner's got an ear to the wall. On the far right of the room you can see the scrawlings of a madman (or a madwoman, in this case) covering up some kind of map, showing routes and the like. Probably their path for supply runs, if you could wager a guess. 

You don’t know how much time passes while you wait for an opportunity. Hours, at the least, and you can't help but think about how much Susie must be worried about you. She never liked when you left on your own; if you ever manage to escape you doubt she'd ever let you out of her sight again. At this point it would be a blessing. The only time your captors acknowledge you is when 'Alice' brings you a cold bowl of soup. You can't much bring yourself to eat it.

“...Word on the wall is that some of the preachers people are gonna be moving a bunch of food to the Shanty Town downstairs. I wager if we cut them off, we could resupply for at least a month.” The angel shifts, tapping something on the wall. Tim looks over your way, and the angel's gaze follows, before giving him a dismissive huff. “Oh, she’ll be  _ fine. _ The demon doesn’t come out this far, and half the searchers are dead or hiding on this floor.”

You get the feeling your safety isn’t what he’s concerned about.

“Come on," says the angel, standing from her seat, "We gotta hurry if we wanna catch them before they get to the canal.”

The Boris threateningly slaps a pipe against his hand in your direction, but reluctantly leaves with the faker. You stick your tongue out at him. You swear, of all the Borises you’ve  _ ever _ met, this one is your least favorite.

After you’re sure they’re gone, You sigh in relief. “If I had to listen to her drone on for one more second... huh, now I get how Susie feels.” You pull back your hair and crack your knuckles. “...Of course, a lil'  _ self-awareness _ ain’t gonna stop me from being a nuisance.” You grab a hold of the bars, and begin to pull. “The poor girl, she must be worried  _ sick _ about me! Well don’t worry honey, I’m on my way home."

The bars spread like butter when you actually pull them, a very handy ability that comes with being a cartoon. No real,  _ physical _ laws actually apply to you- especially when they were an inconvenience. You wipe your hands off on your dress. You  _ hate _ having to get them dirty, but 'desperate times' and all that Jazz.

You step through the gap in the bent metal pipe previously making up your prison, and get a real good look at the map on the wall. You have half a mind to rat them out to your fiancée, but you’ve seen enough monsters shambling about in stitches to want to be a snitch. It’s best to just leave them be, you think.

After all, they aren't hurting anyone that matters.


End file.
